


The Lady in Blue and White

by ObsidianMichi



Series: Conquest in Winter [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Post-Trespasser, Rebellion, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 141,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianMichi/pseuds/ObsidianMichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel walks the world and Thedas turns to war. In Tevinter, there are rumors of yet another slave uprising as the Qunari begin their invasion in earnest. While in Orlais, former Grand Duke Gaspard returns for another attempt to retake his throne. The first of the Evanuris, Dirthamen has been freed to walk the land. And in the midst of it all, the Inquisition is left leaderless when the Inquisitor vanishes during her stay with the Avvar.</p><p>Tattered threads of a broken world weave themselves together as lovers turn to enemies, enemies turn to allies, and war borne on winter winds races to engulf the nations of Thedas.</p><p>Eirwen Lavellan charts a course to save her world, forging alliances with Tevinter Magisters and Evanuris alike; while Solas must finally make a choice between his duty and his heart. In the end, however, even that choice may be stolen from him. As a rival from his past might just reach Lavellan first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic directly relates to my Trespasser fic "The Way We Say", so if you haven't read that then you may want to.

Solas walked through the woods. His only guiding light the moon high above, silver rays shining through the branches and underbrush to light the path ahead. Soft dirt crunched beneath his feet, his fingertips brushing across the tall grass and wide fans of fern leaves. The surrounding trees grew close together, their trunks arcing over both sides of the trail to twine together into a loose collection of shadowed arms. No wind drifted through the forest. No sound lingered in his ears. Only an unnatural silence, that of a memory half-remembered. An impression left on the Fade, one which had sought him.

All his senses tuned to where the dream was leading him. It could be nothing, it could be important. Dreams were tricky creatures, drawn from the subconscious, full of symbolism, meaning, and the occasional jabbering pink halla with a full tea set.

Those he tried not to interpret too much.

It was merely a matter walking the line between the meaningless and what held meaning, and even a pink halla could be a clue to some issues buried within the slumbering mind.

Slowly, Solas pushed through thick bristled branches and stepped out into a plateau with a wide body of water, a lake.

His breath caught.

Eirwen lay on the bank beside the lake, fingers tangled up in her hair. A soft, white dress draped seductively across her body and clung tightly to the proper curves. The fabric hung loosely around her breasts, slightly see through beneath the moon’s silver light. Orange bangs fell across her forehead and her eyes were closed. The other arm stretched out across the sand, allowing the waters to caress her soft skin. One leg crossed across the other. The flimsy skirt slid off her knee and down her thigh, just enough to tease his imagination.

Above her, the moon hung brightly, silver rays striking the lapping waves and highlighting the ripples cast out on the water. Eirwen’s eyes remained closed. Her hair fanned about her head, curling against her cheeks, and drifting across the sand in a halo of fine, orange strands.

She was more akin to a mythical creature or a spirit than a flesh and blood being, and, in this dream of his, both her arms remained. He half-expected to see sister spirits rise up out of the lake. Or to see her smile transform to that of a desire demon, like many of the countless that had come to tempt his dreams before and since the events surrounding the Exalted Council.

He stepped from the underbrush, but she did not lift her head nor turn to face him. If anything, she remained utterly unaware of his existence. Yet another sign that he was only a passive observer. Unable to reach out nor interact with this figment. Be it born of his desire, from the memory of this mysterious place, or both.

It was his place to be tormented by large and inquisitive eyes, by orange bangs flopping stubbornly free over her forehead, by soft lips which quirked into wry smiles, and genuine, fragile vulnerability hidden by backbone born of steel. She had a fierce kind of strength, focused, determined, and piercing. A pride which taunted, tempted those who might wish to conquer it. Her smiles hid wry amusement that was at once both conciliatory and mocking. Never grew intractable until one stretched out their hand, never grew elusive until one sought to bend her to their will. Never quite so vulnerable as she seemed, though far more than she knew.

He understood the difficulties all too well.

She could not be captured, nor contained. Though she may choose to settle in one place for a little while, it was in her nature to wander. Those who tried to keep her or claim her as theirs would be cruelly disappointed, for she belonged to everyone and to no one. Not to any one people or nation, not to any institution, not to any single individual, nor family or collection of friends, not to be claimed even by those who declared themselves gods.

She belonged to herself alone.

In the distance, a horn sounded. It echoed through the woods as a great bellowing howl. Drawn forth from some distinct and distant place, part of a world outside this one. The signal for some ceremony to begin.

_A summons._

Rising up off the bank, Eirwen turned to face the lake.

A breeze whistled across the water, the rushes answering with whispers of their own. Then, bells chimed. Ringing through the trees as a flute’s breathy song filled the air.

Her skirt fluttered about her knees. Her foot rose and planted down. Toes pointed, pressing into the sand. Her back straight. Her hands lifted high into the beginning position of a dance he’d witnessed many times before. The moon’s glow glinted off her fingertips. Silver light catching on her bare shoulders, shining off creamy skin and soft orange hair. White fabric hugged her waist, bound tight by a simple white belt. The dress comprised the only cloth she wore.

Lightly, one bare foot stepped out onto the water.

Solas’ fingers clenched on the bark of a tree.

Another followed. Then another. Another came after it.

She walked across the water, slow and steady. Her stride purposeful. Confident. She walked with no fear of falling, as if the liquid beneath her feet were solid in the way of any other hard surface. There was no moment’s hesitation or any tick to suggest she might regret whatever was to come.

A thought which gnawed at his stomach. Eirwen was never quite this sure, not unless she was also about pursue an incredibly foolish course of action.

He wanted to cry out, but she would not heed him. This act, whatever it was, had taken place in the not too distant past. This feeling belonged to a moment beyond his reach. One he could not change.

She came to a stop in the center of the lake, so the moon’s reflection captured her small, thin frame in its center. Rays of moonlight caught in her hair, illuminating those tiny beads of water threaded through the strands. They gleamed brightly, as if they were crystallized instead.

In the distance, drums had begun to beat. Once again, the horn howled.

She dipped, dropped, fingertips on her left hand trailing the water’s surface.

 _The severed hand,_ he realized. Though, he was sure this event did not predate the Exalted Council.

Lashes fluttered over luminous sky blue irises. Her expression the picture of contented contemplation. Then, her eyes narrowed. Her hand whipped up. Palm cupped with fingers flat, she sent water cascading through the air in a silver spray. Droplets shivered in midair. Transformed to ice and frost, sparkling as magic captured all airborne liquid in its cold embrace.

Eirwen spun.

The water followed. Rising up off the lake, it chased after her hand. Circling higher and higher as she twisted about. Each sweep brought the water closer, sent the spray wider. Chunks of ice went flying across the surface, waves rippled outward. They crested toward the shore, white foam capping each one. It grew to the roaring tumble of a winter storm as her fingers twisted up toward the overhead moon.

She stopped, arms crossing before her breasts. Her hands circling, blue light gleaming off her nails like tiny stars. As her gestures transformed the air into a protective orb, ice closed around her body and sealed her away.

Solas took a step forward, hand lifting from the underbrush. His mouth opened. A frigid breath catching in his throat.

 _It is only a dream,_ he reminded himself. Even if this were a memory, the Fade itself was a subjective place. As with Ostagar, he could be seeing only one side. One version of this event, one separate from what had truly taken place in the waking world. After all, he had taken the Anchor. She could not have been within the Fade itself.

This was only half a memory.

A scream echoed from overhead.

A shadowed green light glimmered within the globe.

Ice spread from it, racing outward across the lake.

Waving stalks of grass, bushes, mud along the bank, all of it froze. Chimes rang. A howling wind whipped in silver flurries, gray and silver clouds churned in the sky overhead. All around him the land turned cold, encased in ice, with a chill that cut deep his cheeks. The blood crystallized before it could fall. Perfectly formed droplets, red as rubies. The ground went white beneath his feet and great drifts of snow blew in, building walls higher and higher around the globe in the center of the lake.

Solas straightened.

There was movement within the circumference of a blue-white surface. Shadowed hands beat against the ice. A dark mouth opened in a soundless scream. A pair of blue irises burned inside it.

Brilliant. Shining. Electric.

Eyes filled with terror.

With light.

The shape inside the ice wrenched.

The shadowed body stretched, the neck lengthened, and arms cracked. Strained. It grew larger within the globe. Taller. With an elongated head. Dancing shadows transformed to upturned branches. To antlers. And then, it… reared.

A keening rose on the wind, the scream transformed into a wild triumphant cry.

Then, a word. Spoken in elvhen.

“Enasalin.”

Solas covered his eyes.

Blue beams struck out against the globe, the ice cracked like fine spider webs scattering outward. They raced across the surface, growing larger. Larger, longer, until they covered the entirety of the globe. Until the globe itself shattered.

Snow rushed out across the ice, whirling flurries raced in the air. The blue light died, ended in an endless expanse of white. The explosion rocked over the waters, spun outward in a spiral of energy.

Hot. Bright. Blinding.

He dropped a hand.

No woman stood on the lake, only a single white halla among scattered shards of ice. Silver horns and hooves, large, liquid blue eyes. The halla stepped gingerly from the broken orb and out onto the ice, testing it lightly with her hooves. Nostrils flared, a thick cloud of steam rising up toward the silver-black clouds overhead with a slow exhale.

She was a delicate creature, light, lean, with well-formed hocks and haunches. Hide a beautiful bone white, pure as the snow drifts shifting around her. Horns spiraling upward, large ears, and sharp hooves. Perfect as if shaped by the hands of Ghilnan’nain herself.

The head swung toward him. The great sapphire blue eyes widened. As if she were seeing him for the first time. Her ears flicked. She paused, front leg lifted high.

He swallowed.

She was going to run. If she ran, then she’d keep on running. Running so hard, so fast, until there was no life left and even then she would just keep on. If he did not chase her now, she would be lost to him.

Solas took a step forward, a single step as his bare foot crunched on the snow.

Somewhere in the distance, silver bells jangled and the horn echoed out a long moan.

The halla reared up on her hind legs. She came down hard, stomping her hooves into the ice, and lunged toward him. Her head leveled out, horns pointed at his chest, her long legs stretched further with each leaping bound. She was charging.

The bells chimed again. This time more insistently.

He took a step forward. Her name on his lips. Arms spread wide.

A single word could end this. He needed only to speak it.

The bells chimed a third time.

His eyes met hers and he saw large, liquid irises shining with a bright frozen blue.

Solas’ mouth opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of my "Evil Eirwen" series which I'm calling "Conquest in Winter". It's really a "Eirwen doesn't give a shit anymore and the gloves are coming off" but, okay. Since it involves an Inquisitor doing a lot of really questionable things and going off the rails, you know... we might as well call that evil.


	2. Chapter 2

A knock echoed in his ears.

Solas lifted his head from the desk, eyes shifting to the quill he clenched between his thumb and forefinger. His chin rose off his forearm. The parchment of notes, now beneath his elbow, was crumpled beyond repair. He took a second to wipe his mouth, remove sticky remnants of drying drool from his chin and straightened in his chair.

Another one followed, this time more insistent. Knuckles struck a door, hard.

His door.

Rubbing his temple, Solas leaned back. Yes, he was in his office in the old elvhen stronghold that had once belonged to Sylaise. The one his followers had chosen to dub Fen’harel vir Revasan. The fortress itself resided deep in the Anderfels, far to the north of the Warden’s Weisshaupt. If he turned his head right, he would see their jagged, snowy peaks from his window and not the Frostbacks. Fen’harel vir Revasan, not Tarasyl’an Tel’as. Not Skyhold. He closed his eyes. As far from Southern Thedas as the Eluvians would take him. Unreachable, in fact, by any without access to the network.

A necessary precaution, he’d decided at the time. Though, Solas sighed, his own cowardice would be more aptly blamed. Slowly, he lifted the sheaf of parchment and smoothed it with his palm. Ink smudged his skin, the writing nearly illegible. A day’s worth of notes, once again lost.

His gaze turned the mountains, and he was unable to stop the pang tightening in his chest. Each time he laid eyes on them, he missed the high mountains surrounding Skyhold. The cold stone walls echoing with warm laughter as its occupants huddled about primitive fires. Its boxy corridors and doorways. The constant shuffling of paper and murmurs that could be heard overhead. The occasionally cawing of Leliana’s ravens to waken him from a long slumber. Even three months after their meeting during the Exalted Council, after he had given her the opportunity to fend off a Qunari invasion, Skyhold and Orlais at large remained taboo.

Eyes dropping back to the table, they located a small sketch on the far corner of his desk. Large, warm eyes with long fluttering lashes staring from a round face. Sharp cheekbones met a slightly squared jaw and a gentle, sloping chin. These eyes were narrowed in neither pain, nor anger, nor disappointment. They were happy, crinkled at the edges, as full lips tilted into a coquettish smile. Her head rested on her forearm, bangs flopping across a wide brow. The rest feathered out around her, cut short at her jaw.

How she’d looked when he’d last seen her three months past.

 _Your eyes have too often been filled with sorrow, vhenan._ He traced those lips with his fingertip. _And almost all is my doing._ His dream left him troubled, but there was little he could do. _She is beyond my reach._ He had already said his goodbyes. _Yes._ He could only focus on what was to come.

Knuckles struck the door a third time, much more irritably than the before.

Setting the sketch aside, Solas lifted his head. “Enter.”

Iron hinges creaked as the great oak slab swung open. Tan, his second in command, stepped inside. “Afternoon, sir,” she said cheerfully. Tipping a flat leather cap on the top of her head, she offered him an almost mocking half-bow.

Laying aside a quill, he let out a sigh. “Come with news, Tan?”

“Would I disturb you for less?” Her head swung, chestnut colored hair swaying across her shoulders. A wicked smile cut across ruby painted lips.

He smiled.

Tan was tall for a female elf, especially a modern one. Statuesque, she towered nearly as high as a short human. Taller than himself, nearly as tall as Abelas, with the wider frame and thicker build of an elf of Elvhenan. No dainty creature that looked as if it might be blown over or snapped in half by a stiff breeze. With sharply defined aristocratic features, she retained the old standards of beauty rather than rounded cheeks and the large deep set eyes common amongst their modern brethren. Tan’s classic figure, full bodice, wide hips, all combined to a beauty approaching supernatural. Once a pleasure slave in Elgar’nan’s gardens, her physical perfection was marred only by a single weal burned into her right cheek.

Like Felassan, she was immortal. Unlike him, she was free of the vallaslin. As one of his oldest surviving companions from the days of the rebellion, from before he raised the Veil and Arlathan fell, she remained one of the few he could trust.

She crossed the room with a long, languid, swaying stride. Movement designed to arouse interest, to pleasure, each action a single moment in which perfect beauty might be captured. She could captivate a crowd with a single flick of her fingers, tease the mind simply by bending to touch her toes, as the wandering of her eyes caused the mouth to water with the excitement of her approach. During times of relaxation, Tan often relaxed back into old habits and training. Though her mind was canny, her supernal excellence left her unfit for dealing with what the modern world had to offer elves. She could not help but stand out, could not help but attract the eye, and, for one of Elvhenan, attention was a dangerous proposition.

Laying her palm flat, Tan leaned across the table with a teasing red smile as she bared the deep cut of her cleavage. Stretching past his arm and letting the press of her breasts rest against his bicep in the fashion of their ages old game, she turned another sketch of Eirwen to face her.

Humoring him, he supposed. “Obviously your missive is not so important.”

Her eyes scanned the picture, dropping to Eirwen’s arm as it rested on the edge of the tub. The hexagonal tub Duke Cyril had delivered to Skyhold three months before the events of the Exalted Council. Wet bangs draped over her brow, her head tilted, and her eyes shining. Her mouth crooked coquettishly, inviting.

“Pretty,” Tan said. “Didn’t realize you enjoyed them so young, innocent, and sweet, Dread Wolf.”

He chuckled. “You of all should know how such appearances deceive, Tan.”

She smiled, politely. Then, blue-purple irises rolled and her upper lip curled in disgust. She could not appreciate the comparison. Tan’s refusal to worship him, or even respect his authority in private, made her a useful second. She was always honest with her opinions, forthright when necessary, and she enjoyed nettling him. Still, such behavior could be troublesome, especially when she prodded.

“I believe you said you had news,” he continued. “Or did you come merely to mock my art?”

Tan lifted her finger, turned, and hopped up onto his desk. Her legs kicked out as she glanced back over her shoulder. “Is that what we’re calling these now?”

He sat back. “The information, Tan?”

Grinning, she withdrew a small silver bag from her overcoat and lay it down before him. “Why else would I interrupt your sweet dreams?”

Reaching out, Solas claimed the bag.

“It was difficult to acquire. The Inquisition has grown much more cautious since the Exalted Council, many of their projects have been split and segmented. Half the project is in the hands of the Circle, the other half resides with the Collegium, and the third is with that durgen’len Dagna in Terasyl’an Tel’as.”

With a single finger, Solas unthreaded the knot and reached inside. His fingers located a square cut gem about the size of his palm. He drew it out, balancing the gem on his palm. “This is all you managed?”

“With the Inquisitor’s continued absence, they only grow more paranoid. We’ve had continued difficulty infiltrating the Circle, and those in your Skyhold haven’t managed to penetrate the Undercroft.” Her lips pursed. “We found that and this,” she produced a piece of white chalk and held it out. “As with everything, their usage of magical theory is…”

“Quaint?”

“Provincial,” Tan replied. “Yet, the others have so far been unable to determine how the two are connected.”

“And the Inquisitor?”

“She remains missing. Our agents have been unable to gain access to her quarters or any missives which mention her, if any know it would be her advisors and they aren’t talking of it. After the events of the Exalted Council, servants, particularly elven and human, now undergo intense scrutiny. Those who have been chosen recently to care for the Inquisitor’s quarters are all durgen’len.”

His brows rose. “Ah,” a slight smile twitched on his mouth, “I had wondered.”

“Surface dwarves,” Tan added. “Unaffiliated, as far as we can tell, to any dwarven faction.”

“She would rather risk the Carta than us,” he replied.

“Or…” Tan trailed off, but her gaze met his with specific intensity.

“Yes,” he agreed. Lacking the ability to dream, dwarves were the perfect method to blocking him when it came to accessing other routes as he obtained information. “The time may have come to lay in bribes.”

“Already done. A few agents of ours in Orzammar have contacted some smaller parties and smuggling rings in the Merchant’s Guild. The Carta has an interest in Inquisition business and the lyrium trade, they may have spies with access over whose shoulders we might peek.”

He nodded. “Avoid the notice of Master Tethras if you can.”

“He’s been kept busy with Viscount business in Kirkwall, or so our agents in the palace tells us.”

His lips twitched. “Yet with enough remaining to eviscerate me in fiction.”

“He has his priorities, I assume,” Tan replied. “Though they often make precious little sense.” She rolled the chalk around on her palm. “We hire out hits every so often to waylay a few of his contacts’ couriers in the smuggling rings. On occasion, we insert a few of our own to take the place of those they lost. I know you are not fond of these acts but it is—”

He held up a hand. “We have been here before, Tan.”

She sighed. “As with Dirthamen, it is necessary to let some information slip through from time to time so he believes everything is in the clear. I have already planted information to out a few of our sloppier and peripheral modern _siblings_ ,” the word carried an ironic twist, “to distract him. As their anger at the other shemlen led to a few extreme acts, they’ve managed to outlive their usefulness.”

“A few acts of violence are necessary from time to time,” he said. “To keep them distracted and off balance.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not when they risk exposing us with reckless action.”

Solas nodded. “I assume they will not die easily?”

Tan chuckled. “If there’s one thing that can be said of the shemlen, they fight as if possessed by Andruil herself. Tethras will find the disposal of these children and the recovery of their information worthy of the effort spent.”

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Then, allow Master Tethras to believe he has made strides in outing our network.”

“From your lips to our ears, Fen’Harel.” She inclined her head. “It shall be done.”

Mind shifting to the pendant hanging beneath his shirt and hanging just above his heart, he let his senses travel down the length of his arm to the crystal. The Inquisition and its Inquisitor were the threats worth thinking about, the others proved minor annoyances more often than not. Her plans were the ones he cared about.

 _She has begun controlling and restricting access to information._ That control stretched beyond the necessity of her presence in Skyhold itself. Her ability to rather masterfully construct organizations which could continue to function in totality without her had begun to impress him.

Lifting one hand, he pressed a smile to his knuckles.

Deliberately cutting him off from necessary first-hand information, forcing him on secondary accounts while simultaneously cutting off opposite routes to information? Yes, that was like her. Corypheus had never given her much reason to stretch her wings. After Haven, she had learned to control the field, command, and then conquer. Now, she adapted. Invasion of Inquisition ranks by his, Qunari, and countless other forces seeking to use this new power to their own advantage meant the wagons circled. While crude, her methods functioned. _All she ever needed was time,_ Solas thought. Many of his Elvhen agents discounted her, while many modern elves disregarded her as a shem pet. Yet overwhelming odds had only ever presented an intriguing challenge for Eirwen, the impossible existed to be undone, and the higher the mountain then the better the climb.

He studied the gem in his hand.

Time and again, her mind proved a wondrous instrument. Coupled with an indomitable spirit, she proved frustrating to many of his agents. Yet, when faced the beginnings of some new invention, Solas found himself delighted.

“Wolf?” Tan’s query brought him back.

“The crystal possesses a faint magical residue.”

“As does the chalk,” Tan replied. “I’ve been able to determine them as some sort of catalyst.”

“Ah.” He tilted his head and held it up to the light, the gem warmed in his hand. “A fixture belonging to another device.” He turned the crystal over, a faint light flickered inside it and he watched white runes flare across the bottom. _A reactive spell, tuning itself to a mage’s energy. Fascinating._ Embedded inside was a small lattice of lyrium to act as a consistent source of power. It shone a bit brighter, then a mild sense of displacement wriggled in his stomach. _Quite clever, vhenan._

“The Circle has the rest of it,” Tan said.

Slowly, he lay it back down on the table. “She is opening portals.”

“Impossible!” Tan snapped. “Without direct access to the Fade, the eluvians—”

He held up a hand. “This is simple displacement, moving from one place to another requiring little to no crossing of the Veil at all. I suspect it requires two, with each act as a homing device allowing for seamless transition from one place to another.”

“No stable portals moving into a separate reality?” Tan asked. “No created space or stable pathways? Truly primitive.”

“Inventive,” he replied with a smile. “I suspect she is working within a more limited scope, perhaps with a different intention in mind.”

Tan snorted.

Slowly, he lifted the stone again. This crystal was unlike the one around his neck. A simple necklace he’d failed to return after his fateful meeting with Eirwen on the hilltop, one he had not counted on containing visual records made of her past two years. She had never mentioned working with object displacement in her notes, though he found himself unsurprised. Her Knight Enchanter training used a similar technique as a means of attack and there was what was commonly known as a “fade step” by the Circle mages. A transition and means of escape.

 _She had access to my mark for three years, both she and Dagna studied it extensively. With my assistance and on their own, Eirwen has always been given to practical application of magical experimentation. If I could move across the world using the eluvian, then perhaps she would wish the same._ He smiled. _With a much more simplified network of her own._

However, he knew many of the People had a disdain modern magics. One he shared. Mages of this time were so very limited in scope and every attempt to stretch was met by the Chantry and their Templars driving them back down. They were primitive, limited, and hardly any form of danger. Not even within societies like Tevinter, where magic was practiced freely. The bright flames of those like Corypheus had passed from this world, and what remained even in his wake was all the more diminished.

There were no bright stars rising.

And he had abandoned the only one with any promise on the steppes of Vir Ghilan.

He watched Tan frown.

She and the others worried he might be compromised as Felassan had been, grown soft or sentimental toward those they viewed as so utterly inferior. He shared similar fears. His restraint had fractured. After two years of keeping himself leashed, bound within the confines of his mind, restricted himself from even the thought of her. As he prepared, planned, and took his objectives one by one. His one mistake, he knew, had been luring her to Vir Ghilan. Letting her know the truth, facing her if only to prove once and for all that he could once again walk away.

Yet, since that day, that night, his control slipped through his fingers like water over the rocks before the falls. She had angered him, pressed him, _tempted_ him with her eyes, her scent, her sharp mind and even sharper tongue. Each time he drifted off into dream now, he sought her.

And each time, except this last, he came up empty.

What he wanted, where he wished to be, the one whose company he wished to spend his days in, those were kept cruelly beyond his reach. He might have had the temptation of her, but somehow even that had been denied him.

If he could, he would spend his nights as a phantom at the edge of her subconscious.

Solas sighed.

He lay the crystal on the table. “You wish for me to continue this investigation.”

“The secrets lie within the Circle mages,” Tan replied. “They are best accessed through their dreams. We have watched, but, for all their other deficiencies, their minds are well-guarded.”

Again, he sighed. “Very well.” He waved a hand. “Continue with your report.”

Fishing a piece of paper out of her pocket, Tan unfolded it. “A female elf with silver hair has recently been seen within the contingent of Magister Claudius,” Tan read. “An old man, he wields little power in the Magisterum. Though she dresses always in Tevene garb, she is undoubtedly a foreigner. Our agents say she has been seen entering and leaving the study within his estates. Little is known about her other than she is referred to only as…” Tan tilted her head, “Something in tevene, translates to The Lady in Blue and White.”

“She is bound to his estates?” Solas asked.

“Unknown,” Tan replied. “None have seen her leave, yet rumors suggest his star is on the rise. As she is the only unknown quantity, it may be due to her efforts.”

He nodded.

“The exiled Grand Duke, Gaspard de Chalons has recently laid siege to and captured a strategic outpost on the edge of Orlesian territory overlooking a major trade passage between Orlais and Nevarra. They say the Maker favored him when mountains themselves fell upon his enemies. They are not entirely wrong, as the Empress’ forces were buried beneath an avalanche. The former Duke’s contingent is much more observant than her Imperial Highness and apply a great deal more scrutiny to traveling merchants. That route is no longer safe.” Tan paused. “We are fortunate that you secured the eluvian network when you did, Dread Wolf.”

“It is not so fortuitous,” he replied. “Our enemies know we possess the labyrinth and the Inquisition has been moving to limit those options, in Fereldan, Orlais, and with some mild success in Tevinter.”

Tan snorted. “Thus far, the Magisters have proven more interested in controlling it for themselves. Their individual greed and pathological need to hoard power shall be their undoing.”

“I would not be so certain, Tan,” Solas said. “While many of Magisters may be cut from the same cloth as the Evanuris, just as many have shown a tendency to organize and even, on the rare occasion, act honorably.”

Tan’s eyes swung to the abandoned sketch on the end of his desk, her eyes narrowing. “Your time among the shemlen made you soft, Dread Wolf.”

He drummed his knuckles against the desk. There had been questions since his return, too many. “Do you feel insults to be the wisest course, Tan?”

She paled.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” she said. “The usual disruptions in Antiva and the Free Marches. The Friends of Red Jenny have been busy. The same with those others you requested we keep an eye on. Magister Pavus continues his efforts. The Venatori have survived Calpurnia’s capture and the remnants have at last returned to Tevinter, they continue their mission. As I mentioned, Viscount Varric Tethras remains bogged down by Marcher business. The elves of Wycomb are oppositional to our recruiting efforts among the other Dalish Clans, though the last remnants of Briala’s resistance group have signed on with us. Inquisition agents remain a thorn in our collective sides in Val Royeaux and Denerim. If you would allow us to begin eliminating their cells—”

Slowly, Solas reached out and took the stone off the desk. He did not need to look up for the sentence to die on Tan’s tongue, though he could see the truth in her eyes. _The shemlen have made you soft, Fen’Harel._

A faint smile curved his mouth and he turned the gem over between his fingers, he could not disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of wanted to do something with Solas' spy network. Just because. I like spies.


	3. Chapter 3

Morrrigan moved through the dark woods, tugging her coat tight against the bitter cold. The only light was the flame in her hand as even the moon above had been hidden by the clouds. She twitched on occasion when the wind stirred, and almost thought she heard voices. They were different from the muddled whispers in her mind. This was the sound of someone laughing. Other than a few laughs from Kieran, it was a sound she heard rarely these days.

 _A frightening sound,_ Morrigan thought.

It was difficult to know, in any respect, what it meant. Whether it was more than her own mind, whether or not it was the wind, or the world itself laughing at her folly. Or, perhaps, it was the voice of the woman she had come to meet. A woman she’d thought she knew once. A woman who had proven her gravely wrong in any initial assessment, even during their travels together. Morrigan took comfort in the knowledge that she was not the only one who had been so mistaken.

She appreciated instead that she alone knew the truth.

For all knowledge came with it a terrible price.

And the voices inside her, those long dead servants of Mythal’s informed her that knowledge such as this was a gift. One she might in time claim for herself, and for Kieran. One worth any price.

The snow crunched beneath her boots and she pushed the branches back, stepping forward into the small clearing. Warm orange light glimmered on the great drifts and lit a thousand tiny crystal diadems. Morrigan’s other hand passed over the bark, feeling the soft burn of magic beneath her palm. Her gaze narrowed, sensing out the dark and the shadows moving between the trees ahead. The fallen log that lay on the ground, partially hidden by the snow.

Her eyes narrowed and she sighed.

She was where she had been told to be. “If we are to stand about in this frightful cold, you might have at least performed the courtesy of at providing fire.” Morrigan grimaced. “I know it has been some time since you spent your days in civilized company, yet I did not expect you to forget your manners so quickly.”

In the darkness, someone laughed. The world shifted, then sharpened and the image on the log flickered like the fire around Morrigan’s fingers. There an elven female sat, dressed in armor of white leather and with a high collar of made from blue silk. Her skin was pale as the snow that surrounded them, color provided only by a rouge applied to round cheeks, full reddened lips, and lavender over the eyelids. Her hair was silver and curled slightly, and she wore it bound up in a loose ponytail behind her head. Loose bangs curled seductively down the left half of her face.

“How could I be certain it was you and not some shepherd,” asked the Lady in Blue and White, “if I didn’t request you look?”

Morrigan snorted. “I have no need to jump through your hoops. Lest you forget, I provided you with my mother’s grimoire.” She had a fondness for games and a similar air of mystery, but the Lady’s came with an edge that reminded her all too much of her mother’s. She might have worried that this was Mythal returned in a different form, had the Well’s voices not so strenuously negated that particular assumption. “All I have done since is a favor to you.” She held out a hand. “We are freezing high in the mountains above the Frostback Basin as you insisted. I have come alone as you insisted. I could be secured comfortably in my quarters using the Well’s knowledge to research Fen’Harel for the Inquisition, yet I am here at your request.”

“You are here due to your own curiosity, Morrigan, your pursuit of knowledge, your desire to preserve the past,” cold ice-blue eyes hardened, “and your own greed.”

Morrigan sucked in a deep breath, a cold breath, and swallowed. She had no reason to be frightened or insulted, she offered her own back frequently and the Lady accepted them with a smile as easy as she had in the past. “I need not remind you of the dangers inherent in studying Flemeth’s grimoire.”

The Lady in Blue and White smiled. “No.”

“And?” Morrigan asked.

“I do require your assistance,” the elven woman replied. “As expected.”

Morrigan let the breath she’d been holding free. It was good to be reminded that the Lady was not all seeing, not all knowing. She would need her help, help from someone with specialized knowledge. And just as worrisome to be reminded that this was the same redheaded Herald of Andraste that she had once walked into the Well of Sorrows with. One she had sought to manipulate to gain access to the knowledge now residing within her mind.

The Lady watched her with ice-cold eyes. It was hard to believe sometimes that those were the same eyes. Once warm as a summer blue sky, they were now the color of winter. No longer inviting, no longer amiable, far from congenial, they could send a man fleeing for the hills with a single glance. Yet, Morrigan caught a twinkle in them every now and again. Half a laugh hidden in the corner, hidden amusement beneath that frozen facade. They were not nearly as cold and empty as they often seemed. It warmed her to think some part of the hero she’d met in Celene’s palace might still remain, the one who was kind when she had no reason to be. “I thought you might.”

The elven woman stood. Her hand did not brush down her pants. No snowflakes clung to outfit, none rested in her hair, nor did it clump on her boots. She walked forward untouched, her heels left no prints behind in the snow. Morrigan doubted even the wind could drag a single hair free from her head, untouched as she was by the physical world around her. The Lady lifted a right hand carefully gloved in articulated blue-metal plates. “Are you prepared?”

“Yes,” Morrigan replied. “I believe I—”

The air snapped behind her, burning hot. A pop sounded, then it rumbled and built toward a roar. Morrigan felt her stomach heave. Wind flung her backwards. She stumbled.

And was caught in a blast that shone blue.

 

***

 

Eirwen Lavellan watched Morrigan tumble into the snow, back crunching through the hard top crust of ice as she landed. The corner of her mouth twitched. Surrounding blue light faded to a faint glimmer, energy dissipating across the plateau.

Morrigan struggled to her feet, shoving herself up to stand. One hand clenched, but the fire was gone as were the tendrils of energy which surrounded her. “Have you gone completely mad?”

“I did suggest you dress warmly.”

Brushing crumbling snow from her jacket, Morrigan glared at her. “The polite thing to do in that situation would have been to tell me where we were heading and allow me to transport myself. It is why you taught me, is it not? So I might be aided as I assist you.”

Eirwen glanced away, her gaze moving to survey the tundra. White in every direction, stretching endlessly out to the furthest horizon. A land empty and cold. No life, no death, not even the Blight. Nothing for hundreds of thousands of leagues. What they needed was here, simply frozen and buried beneath another hundred tons of snow. Hidden away from all prying eyes. Left untouched for over five thousand years. Simply waiting for the correct hands to unlock it.

Hers were not those hands, yet they would do just as well.

“And, as expected, you are no longer listening to me.”

“Do you know where we are?” Eirwen asked.

“Somewhere wet and cold.” Fire flickered on Morrigan’s fingers and she allowed it to hover over the wet portions of her arm. “Quite cold. I suspect if you had only pointed to a map, I might have avoided the tumble.”

“You would be wrong then,” Eirwen replied. She held out a hand, turning it over so the articulated metal claws pointed up. The twilight gleamed off the tips, and they burned with a soft silver glow. “We’re not on any map.”

Golden eyes flicked toward her, then out around them. Assessing the flat, frozen plains of ice. Sensing as much as seeing. It went on, and on, and on, far as the eye could see. Further, in fact. There was no life here. No foxes in their holes. No birds to take to the skies. No bears to traverse across frozen oceans and hunt seals beneath the waves.

There had been, once, Eirwen knew. Quite a long time ago, before the Veil, if the legends were to be believed.

“If we are off the map,” Morrigan said, “then one must wonder where we are—”

Eirwen smiled. “Charting our own course.”

The other woman snorted. “And how you came to know of this place.”

“Magister Claudius may have little pull in the Magisterium, but he has a great deal of pull among the archivists and scholars in the Imperium itself. There’s a great deal of knowledge sequestered away if one knows how to dig.”

“So, we are traveling in unknown lands, far from any known civilization, on the suspect research of a few moldy old Magisters.” Morrigan laughed. “Why, I next expect you tell me that we are in Blighted lands at the top of the world.”

Eirwen’s gaze returned to the snow and she tucked her hands, one a magical projection and the other of flesh and bone, behind her back. “You’d be correct.”

“No.” Morrigan stumbled again, and her face grew pale. “You are wrong.” The words escaped the other woman as a hoarse whisper, clawing at her throat. The disbelief was evident in the widening of her golden eyes. “You must be.”

“Ask the Well voices,” Eirwen said. “I’m not lying to you, Morrigan.”

The other woman paused, lashes falling over her golden eyes, and breathed deep. Her lips moved silently, as if she were having some internal conversation. Then, they pursed. Mouth pulling tight, Morrigan’s fingers dug into her palm. “I knew aiding you was a fool’s errand!” she shouted. “There had best be a reward for me at the end of this adventure, Inquisitor, or I swear to you—”

Eirwen glanced at her. “Morrigan.” She spoke softly, and the word cracked on the air. Her voice like a lash, it made the other woman stiffen and her face tighten. “Your life and Kieran’s are important to me,” Eirwen said. “I would not lead you into danger that you couldn’t handle. What we need is buried here, both the knowledge I seek to aid my people and what you search for to free yourself from your mother.”

“From Mythal,” Morrigan spat. “Her machinations and intentions for my son are what I fear most. Even without the old god’s soul, I sense I am not free of her yet.”

“Neither of us are.” Slowly, Eirwen extended her right hand. “Trust me.”

Morrigan let out a long suffering sigh, but she took her hand all the same and clasped it tightly. “Very well, Lady.” Then, she glanced back at the snow. “I expect you would have brought shovels had you intended us to dig?”

“No.” Eirwen laughed. “There is another way.”

Morrigan’s perfectly plucked brows lifted. “You intend to uncover this with magic?”

Eirwen inclined her head. “And strike two birds with one stone.”

Morrigan turned away, her gaze returning to scan the snowy wastes. “I see. So, whatever it is you need from me must come after this a great mystical act? Or shall you require my aid to lift this as well?”

“It would take too long to explain,” Eirwen replied. “And I prefer you save your strength.”

“How kind of you, _Lady_ ,” Morrigan said. There was no respect in her voice, only an ironic twist, and the resentment. Morrigan hated feeling bested by anyone, hated being in the presence of anyone stronger. Whether that feeling was perceived or real. And the gap in power between them had only widened in recent months.

Eirwen understood, Morrigan preferred to feel superior. She possessed an exceedingly high level of confidence, underscored by deep and unbaiting insecurities. Mocking others in their ignorance helped soothe those insecurities, controlling her environment, her feelings, and the world around her gave Morrigan a better sense of place. The idea of someone like Empress Celene kowtowing before her in order to gain access to greater knowledge she possessed was pleasing. The feeling of being used by one with greater power, of being made unequal, of standing below instead of above, of being talked down to, that infuriated her. Morrigan simply required careful handling, and to be consistently reminded of her importance. That she was valued, needed, and necessary. That what she gained from the exercise might be worth the cost of personal investment.

“Well,” Eirwen smiled. “What comes next will be far more taxing and require your particular skills.”

Morrigan smiled at that, but it was only a ghost flitting across an impenetrable expression and her gaze remained on the snow. “I suppose we cannot all raise mountains nor change a river’s flow on our whim.”

“More’s the pity,” Eirwen replied as she held out a hand. “Stand back.”

Morrigan did, though quite slowly and with great deliberation.

Eirwen stepped past her, spread her arms wide. Opening herself to the Fade, she let her magic flow down both arms and caused the left projected one to glow brightly with a gleaming yellow light. It descended out across the crusted surface and deep into the snow, spread outwards to the circumference of a league across. Her fingers twisted as her mind wrenched deep, seeking out the black stone staircase hidden beneath the ice. Her senses passed down its long corridor to the sealed door, arched with a tapered tip at the top like most Ancient Elvhen construction.

She breathed deep, her heels digging deep into the snow, and lifted.

The plateau shuddered. The surface snow rolled inward with the pull of gravity, similar to the technique she’d watched Solas perform many times in the past. The ice groaned, snapping and crackling as the bottom half ripped free. The great jagged edges pointed toward the ground, and the slick arcs of black stone that lay beneath the packed snow. A building comprised of thick, twining spires hidden away for more than an age.

Eyes narrowing, Eirwen forced it up and into the air. The snow clung together, packed tightly by its own weight. As the entire segment, some five and a half kilometers across, crushed down on her mind. Moving over their heads, its shadow blocked out the sun.

This was not a matter of power, Eirwen knew, but will. One must have will to reshape the world before them, iron clad and uncompromising. A refusal to be bound simply by understanding or acceptance of the rules that oversaw their daily existence.

To see not what was, but what could be. To impose that vision upon an unmalleable world.

It required more than belief.

More than knowing.

One had to transcend.

_There are no laws. Only those prisons we make for ourselves._

She heard Morrigan’s soft gasp behind her. Then, the soft cough which indicated it was clearly unintended. “I don’t suppose you intend to hurl that to one side like a bag of rubbish?” the other mage asked. “Or drop it upon us, perhaps? I do prefer my head to remain in one piece.”

A tiny smile curled on her mouth and, slowly, the great chunk of ice began to turn. It spun, coolly, then more quickly. Eirwen turned her hands above her head, faster and faster. Round to the left, then switching back to the right, letting the flakes inside the great mass warm. She allowed flames to flicker on her fingers, whipping in the already frigid air. The ice whirled, shape pulling up into a disc. Wheeling round and round and round as it thinned, lengthened. Then its center swirled downward, into a conical shape, widening out again, until it became a single floating cylinder of pure water.

Then, Eirwen brought her hands together above her head with a single, resounding clap.

The water glowed with a fierce white-blue light and vanished.

Air snapped, sucking inward to fill the vacated space. What remained of the snow swirled forward in a mass of white flakes and, then, an ear rending boom echoed out across the plateau.

A sound which would echo for leagues.

 _How fortunate that the area is abandoned,_ Eirwen thought with a wry smile.

“Quite impressive,” Morrigan murmured. “Where did you send it, I wonder?”

“Merely fulfilling another promise,” she replied.

Morrigan nodded. “And what pray tell does a Tevinter magister want with what I can only guess is several tons of ice water?”

“What else?” Eirwen laughed. “A decimation of the Qunari invasion force gathering on the outskirts of his lands, of course.”

Morrigan’s nose wrinkled. “Very well,” she snapped. “Keep your secrets, then. What is it you require of me?”

With her right hand, Eirwen gestured to the uncovered stairs. The slick black stone was of the same composition as the type found at the Well of Sorrows, tiny runes were inscribed across them. Circular patterns, quick triangles, and other expressions indicating some magical energy or spells. The stairs descended down, deep into the ground. Beyond them, the spires were visible in the lower portion of what could only be some sort of canyon. “You’ll see.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “A single hint would be appreciated every now and again, my dear Lady.”

“And you will get it,” Eirwen replied. “However, we are currently in a place where we must guard our thoughts. The less the both of us know, then the better off we shall be.”

Morrigan’s mouth tightened, but she nodded and took the lead.

Eirwen followed after her, much more slowly. She already heard the beginnings of familiar whispers scratching at the edges of her mind. Not dissimilar to what she had once experienced in the Exalted Plains and the temple they had uncovered there. The voices of the Well would guard and protect Morrigan.

She was on her own.

Well, Eirwen smiled, she’d known that from the beginning and it wasn’t about to change any time soon.


	4. Chapter 4

On the edges of the Arlathan Forest, a Sten stood guard. His position ready and watching the patrols moving about the vanguard encampment of the Antaam. Countless white tents dotted a small valley below, taking up position near a river which swept down to the ocean where the remainder of their ships resided. However, the majority of supplies had already been moved by the laborers. Along with thousands of barrels of gatlock and six greater siege engines. Hundreds of Sten resided in the valley, waiting on commands from the Arishok to begin the battle in earnest. Theirs was an expeditionary force for the region, the beginnings of what would soon prove to be a sweeping invasion toward Qarinus and down the coast of the Nocen Sea.

They little resistance they’d encountered from the regions’ Magisters. Two unsuccessful attacks that they had easily turned back. Many slaves liberated and taken into the Qun, though it was not the Sten’s place to contemplate matters.

He could feel an electric thrill pass through him, excitement for the coming days. A Sten was not supposed to become excited by the prospect of battle. Their existence simply involved a due to the Qun, a focus on preeminent excellence, with no need to prove themselves. Yet, he was young. He longed for a chance to prove himself to his brethren.

 _Soon,_ the Sten told himself. _Soon._

In the center of the valley, the ground rumbled and swayed, shifted, shook. Then, the earth cracked wide like a great mouth. It opened, swallowing the entire encampment whole. Those several thousand soldiers, freed slaves, and sarebaas within the raised wooden walls barely had time to scream before they dropped into a gaping abyss.

The Sten watched their scrabbling hands, the racing feet, those few patrols they had on the outskirts turning as one. Watched the siege engines sink and tumble as the ground gave way. Those still functioning sarebaas attempted to keep the earth steady, only for their own magic to seemingly betray them. They plunged after the rest.

The great hole spread rapidly across the valley, spiraling wider and wider. The abyss traveling deeper and deeper. An unpredictable disaster, the Sten realized, deceived by the very earth itself. Such chaos could only have come from the hands of magic. _Sorcery!_

Behind him, the Sten heard bugles echoing through the wood.

_Magisters!_

From the pounding hooves, the beating war drums, and fierce cries of what could only be a platoon of Tevinter soldiers. He gripped his spear tightly. They would be on them at any moment.

 

***

 

Lips pressed to his knuckles, Solas sat inside his old study at Skyhold. It was not Skyhold, not truly. As close as he could come within the Fade, into the memories and dreams of those who resided there. Though the place had changed much in the years of his absence, his couch, his desk, and the study itself had remained mostly untouched.

It disturbed him more than it should have.

Solas inhaled deeply, more out of a habitual nervous tick than any sort of need. He’d come into these memories for a very specific reason, to uncover the Inquisitions plans regarding their study of teleportation. Not to be distracted by thoughts of a more pleasant nature. Morose melancholy would not avail him here. Were he to use this as an excuse to chase his own memories, he might simply stay with Eirwen’s head resting on his lap. Or with her curled up on his chest as he held open a book and pretended to read while absently stroking her hair.

She slept rarely, he remembered. Found it difficult to remain down for more than a few stray hours, often spending more time napping than experiencing any sort of real rest. He remembered her boasting that she’d mastered the art of sleeping while standing, dozing while walking. When she insisted meditation counted, moving meditation. Otherwise known as sparring practice against Iron Bull. Even if he, Cassandra, or Varric broke and camped early, there were no guarantees of a good night’s rest. If they pushed her into her tent over all other objections, they’d often find her pouring over reports with tea filled mug in hand. That was in the field. At Skyhold, there’d been no hope at all.

Eirwen once said that after passing the first week on a slight four hours, it became routine for her body. There was always another hill to climb, another town to rescue, another abandoned castle to explore. She carried the weight of a world on her shoulders, and her ability to sleep took the brunt of it. _The first true casualty in her war._ Though, he knew, far from the last. He imagined that after the danger from Corypheus passed, she transitioned fully from explorer to bureaucrat. Spent her days trapped in endless meetings from sun up to sundown, as the hours of rest and relaxation grew ever more rare.

 _And she would give it up as willingly as she sacrifices everything else._ A small smile curved his mouth. _An entire life devoted to the bettering of others._ She believed so fiercely in her causes. Spent every passing moment in pursuit of them. When she was awake, when she traveled across lands and oceans, when she trained, when she sat by a dying soldier’s bedside, when she played with children in a village square, even when she dreamed. Hers was an all-consuming obsession which left little time for anything else.

He could confess to being occasionally jealous of them, which surprised him.

Concern should’ve been his first priority. Be concerned whenever she marched into his study with some tome in hand, to discuss some mysterious puzzle or lost marvel, and all he could see were the dark shadows beneath her eyes or the thinning in her cheeks. Watched an already bone thin frame grow thinner, and wonder if she was eating properly. Pale skin turned slightly sallow, even as her eyes shone with excitement. Bodily destruction given over as she chased a magical concept little more than a distant dream in the minds of modern mages. One that he knew should be commonplace.

He hated to say, _I have seen it, in the Fade. It could be done once, but I fear that is no longer possible._

Only to watch those summer blue eyes, so wondrously warm, grow bright with eager fire. _Not yet,_ she’d say with a smile. For her, ‘no’ was only the minor hindrance before ‘yes’. She wanted to understand everything, to understand why it worked or why it did not. If it did not, then how might it be fixed? Her mind was an ever evolving land of puzzles and schemes, taking in new knowledge and concepts then utilizing them.

Eirwen thought the whole of the world could be understood, that politics, social order, governmental bodies, magical theory, economics, stories, the effects of crop growth and all other areas of study were interwoven together. If the right questions were asked then the puzzle box could be unlocked as one answer built upon another, and they would build a better world. She believed ignorance to be the root cause of prejudice, together with a fear of the unknown. To traverse the unknown and to guide others through it, that was how barriers were broken down. Magic, she said, created the potential for all things to become possible. One only had to ask the questions, and then imagine what could be.

Such boundless optimism, Solas smiled, he missed it more than he could say.

To reshape the world as one wished required total access to the Fade. Forcing the unmovable to move could not happen alone on sheer strength of will. No matter how clever, no matter the intelligence behind such ambition. Only so much could be done and that much would never be enough. It required more than any one person could give. _The Veil must be brought down._ Eirwen’s vision was a fairy tale, a pleasant dream. One too easily shaken when faced with this world’s harsh realities.

She would go on until the end. When it came, he would be left with only a memory.

_I take comfort in the fact I will not long outlive you, vhenan._

Toying absently with the gem hanging around his neck, Solas sighed. Perhaps there would be something, in whatever awaited their spirits in what came next. Perhaps some part of her might live on.

The thought was not as comforting as it might have been.

He let his hand drop, finding soft orange hair. The memory curled on his lap, legs stretched out so her toes drifted over the edge. She was warm beneath his hand, her skin smelling faintly of the simple soaps Josephine imported from Antiva. A breath away from real. His thumb trailed up her ear’s curve. Lips twitching when the memory buried her nose in his thigh. “Did you sleep well, vhenan?”

“I was,” came the plaintive response. Then the sudden, sleepy groan. She rolled over so her shoulder knocked against his waist, short cut hair plastered to her brow. Left hand pressed to her forehead. Long lashes fluttering, his memory of Eirwen blinked up at him. Her jaw lengthened, her lips tried to form a smile, and she failed to hide a huge yawn. “Did I pass out on you again?”

“I will try not to hold it against you,” Solas said, inwardly cursing his own polite smile.

She smiled back, but he didn’t miss the slightest tensing around the eyes or his shadowed reflection in them. When he walked these memories now, he found himself tearing at the walls he built, all his acts meant to keep her at a distance and the uncertainty they caused. If she had reason to doubt his feelings, it was only because he himself had planted them.

 _Planted in a heart already wounded,_ he thought as his hand dropped to caress her cheek with the tips of his fingers. _It would require more than a lifetime to cut them free._ Even if he could attempt it, turn around and return, it would most likely be too late.

Her eyes dropped, sliding to the side. “I hope you don’t,” his memory said. “If I overstep, Solas, just tell me. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen a second time.”

He remembered waiting, just long enough for her to wonder if she had. “No,” he said as he had then. “It is not too inconveniencing.” Spoken on the hope doubt might keep her from returning, much as he enjoyed her company. “Besides,” he added, “you seemed to need it.”

The memory laughed. “I must’ve.” Fingers ran through her hair. Swinging her legs over the edge of the couch, she sat up. “Or else I probably wouldn’t have slept at all.” Her head tilted, and her full lips pulled into a wry grin. “You have such a soothing voice, Solas.” Her skin crinkled around her eyes. “You could probably even lull the Grand Clerics to sleep by reading.”

The trust she shared by choosing to nap with him had been a gift. One he took as if she handed such out easily, and squandered it. Let it fracture on the uncertain ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’. He thought only of himself, of his pain, and had forgotten that such deep insight came from similar wounds. Sometimes, she seemed so old that he forgot her age. Yet, at twenty two, she was barely more than a child.

One whose eyes had already seen too much.

 _I’ll save you,_ she had said on the steppes of Vir Ghilan. _However, I have to._

His fingers clenched to a fist. _You should not._

If any kindness existed in this strange, foreign world, then she would have been spared this fate.

Solas reached out to lay a hand on the memory’s ghostly cheek, tracing the corner of her mouth with his fingertip. He had lied. He had been wrong. He betrayed more than the friends he’d made in the Inquisition to pursue a plan that had always been meant. He betrayed her. Stole her chance to bring about change. To fight for a land and a people she loved, though neither had been kind to her.

Eirwen seemed destined to attract suffering, to give her heart to those who could not appreciate what a rare and marvelous heart it was. He had thought he knew, but he hadn’t. The beauty of her only became clear as he retreaded his memories, he had appreciated neither her mind nor her dreams. He valued her far too cheaply.

Hers was true ambition, her eyes fixed on the heavens and she ready to ascend the stars. Corypheus excited, rather than frightened. And he understood now that it was because she saw what could be, as she had in him on the steppes of Vir Ghilan. Marveling not at the loss, not at the fall, but at last lifting the veil of what could be. Would be. Should be.

Her words echoed back to him. _And who says it must be? Why should we be denied just because it can’t be done the same now as it was then? Why do we always have to do this the same way? There are always other paths, Solas. We just walk the ones we do because they’re all we see._

Two years later, she had softened and hardened. Still recognizable, but forever changed.

She grew and grew quickly, changing rapidly in ways he hadn’t imagined. Had not wished to imagine. The elves of Arlathan could spend a year meditating on a single quality. They changed slowly, if at all. Becoming more set in their ways as time passed. For, in his time, there had been no time. Time was a concept, not a reality. Age a product of accumulation, as the seconds, minutes, hours, and days all ran together. Where one could be one hundred in a moment and remain exactly the same as they had been an hour before.

Two years for Eirwen meant she grew into someone else entirely.

The woman she’d been? Lost to him. The woman she now was? He hardly knew her.

His other hand returned to the gem hanging above his heart.

_I never will._

And that was, perhaps, the greatest tragedy of all.

“Sir!”

Solas glanced up.

One of Cullen’s scouts came striding into the room, papers clutched in his hand.

The image had shifted and Eirwen was gone. Instead, he watched a human male approach a frustrated Commander.

“Sir,” he said. “I’ve been over the storerooms. Twice, three times, eight…” he trailed off. “I looked behind the impenetrable one that Varric’s dwarven lady designed. With the new locks. No one should’ve gotten in there.”

“And?” Cullen asked.

“The shipment,” the scout said in a low voice. “It’s like the Quartermaster said. The gems…” he swallowed, “the one for the mages. They’re _missing_.”

The Commander’s brows lifted. “And what did you find?”

“Nothing,” the scout replied. “That’s the strange bit, Commander. No sign of tampering with the locks, no sign of entry. Our mages say there’s no sign anyone even passed through the door.” He leaned forward, voice lowering. “Magically, I mean. The shipment’s simply gone.”

Solas stood. _How did word of this not reach us?_ he wondered. It was the sort of strange occurrence which should be noted, as was the Inquisition continuing to work with Varric’s friend, Bianca. He could barely guess the tasks Eirwen might have set the smith too. She had an eye for talent and was less scrupulous in her usage of it. The nature of the person in question mattered less than what they had to offer. He’d seen her turn countless enemies into allies. Not through friendship, but on the understanding that those successful among the unsavory would continue to be. Betrayal became inevitable. What mattered instead to her was the gain, the risk and the reward. He half-believed she would utilize anyone if they’d aid her in accomplishing her goal. _For however long they chose to remain allies._ Generally before they grew too comfortable and the terminal stupidity set in, as it had with Florianne.

Cullen sighed heavily. “Leliana will not be pleased,” he said. “And I suppose we must be grateful that the Inquisitor is not here as she’d royally ream all our rears.”

The scout shuffled. “Has there been news?”

“No,” Cullen replied curtly. “Cassandra insists we must give her time to mourn, time to grieve, and so we shall. She carried us long enough. We can hold down the fort a few months, years if necessary.”

“She went to seek out the Avaar in the Frostback Basin, didn’t she?”

Cullen glanced at the scout. “You’re being awfully nosy, Hendrick.”

“It’s been two months, sir,” Hendrick replied. “We’ve just begun to worry.” He gripped his left arm pensively. “It happened so quickly after the Exalted Council and to travel alone with her wound…”

The Commander lay a hand on his shoulder. “You are not alone with those fears. We must trust in Leliana’s ability to keep an eye on her and have faith.” He smiled. “Still, it would’ve been easier had she chosen to winter in Wycomb rather than race off into the wilds.”

Solas stiffened.

It never occurred to him that she might step back, take time to lick her wounds. It was certainly reasonable she'd need a few moments for a break after a year trekking across the lands of Fereldan and Orlais in pursuit of an ancient power set on destroying the world. The next two years of dedicated rebuilding could not be counted as any kind of vacation.

Destruction was difficult. Restoration infinitely more so.

And she came to the Exalted Council to be told her aid, all those sleepless days, skipped meals, and hours of work were no longer necessary. No longer needed.

 _We thank you for your efforts on our behalf, our populace loves you more than they do us, you have instituted sweeping reforms within the lands under your control, and transformed what were once starving refugees into thriving prosperous communities._ Solas snorted. _Now, you are the invader. After the hard labor is done, after the work went in, now we shall take the credit for your work and laud ourselves on our cleverness. What marvelous rulers we are._

Yes, he had seen such events play out countless times before.

 _I still distracted by my own pain, my own grief, my own frustrations with myself._ Informing her about the inevitability of corruption, instead of expressing condolences. Concerned more with himself as he retreated inward. Eirwen had a gift for building. She could transform into someone warm and inviting, friendly, even compliant, so one never suspected the knife which slipped off the table was in her hands. She was so put together, so capable, so in control, it was easy to forget the mess hidden behind those walls. The bundle of insecurities, worries, fears, and loneliness. He had left her to cope on the assumption it would be with friends and those who cared for her, not alone.

Not when she faced another ancient power intent on destroying everything she loved.

With a sigh, he let the surrounding image shift into Hendrick’s memory and found himself in Skyhold’s store rooms. The stone floor was cool beneath his feet. The variety of boxes, barrels, and sacks of stored provisions were piled high along the outer walls. At the end of the room, he saw a vast metal door had replaced the old wooden one. _Dwarven construction._ It reminded him of the ones he’d seen the Deep Roads. Great bronze gears with levers and chains created some sort of mechanical contraption which served as a lock.

Solas watched Hendrick walk up to the door. Watched him insert a small five sided key the size of his palm into the center and rotated. Clockwise, counter clockwise, counter clockwise, clockwise, and then counter clockwise three more times.

 _Ah,_ he thought with a wry smile. _I see now how they believed it to be secure._

He followed Hendrick inside, slowly, his hands turning as he wound the memory back further. While Cullen and his men might be ignorant of those who passed through, Skyhold was not. Its memory stretched on endlessly, he merely required the right moment.

If the answer did not conflict with his goals then he might share it, the Inquisition should know who was breaking into their storerooms. _Not that it matters much, in the end._ His desire to make them, to make amends, out his own guild was just another sign of how far he’d fallen. _How soft I have become._ Believing that with just a nudge, Eirwen might again open her mind to him and let him know that she was, in fact, safe.

Solas sighed, pausing the surrounding image with a wave of his hand. _That is where my thoughts always turn these days, is it not?_ Where he lingered on the edge, ready to begin groveling. _No less than I deserve, I suppose._ He had brought this on himself.

The others probably would laugh if they knew. Or, perhaps, cry.

He knew what they would say. The great Fen’Harel reduced to nothing more than dog trotting at shemlen heels. Already it lingered in their thoughts. They simply lacked the courage to say it aloud.

Leaning back against a small desk in the corner, he crossed his arms. A flick of his fingers sent the memory playing. He did not expect to discover much. No more than a mortal thief from Tevinter or among the Qunari interested as he in the Inquisition’s ventures. Perhaps even one of his that had not yet reported in, or failed to for some unknown reason.

“I’m starting to believe you’re stalking me, hahren.”


	5. Chapter 5

Solas stiffened, and glanced to the left. There Eirwen was, as he’d seen her three months past. Her orange hair hanging loose about her cheeks, warm summer blue eyes hiding a smile, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned back against the wall. Dressed the armor of a Keeper, warm in greens and oranges, and constructed from dragon bone.

Slowly, Solas smiled. “That is quite a good seeming, da’len.”

The spirit’s eyes glittered, lips curved in a cocky smile. “Are you so sure?”

“You are not her,” he said.

Not-Eirwen laughed. “Truly, hahren, I was.”

The inflection on hahren was wrong, too close to its actual meaning. Eirwen twisted it to an insult, not honored elder but _old man._ A backhanded compliment in her way, acknowledging him for his age and wisdom while being playfully sardonic. She enjoyed her banter nearly as much as he did. Double meanings, changes in inflection, subtle digs disguised as compliments, she wielded her words as whips in a contradiction of self no true spirit could match.

“For a time.”

"I see." His brows rose. “You shared her body.”

“For a time,” Not-Eirwen repeated with a sly smile. “She did say you were quick, hahren. I shouldn’t have doubted.”

Solas frowned. _Cullen’s conversation did elude to Eirwen traveling to the Avvar to recover, perhaps she spent time in Strong-Bear hold with their shaman._ The Avvar mages had a strong connection to spirits, even allowing them to share their bodies and guide them as they learned their magicks. The spirits would then return to the Fade or exit them when the time of learning was done. _Perhaps, she learned their ways._ She always did prefer any trip to accomplish three goals at once. _Grieve for her lost arm, rehabilitate herself amongst those who will challenge her and cut her no slack by forcing her to adapt, and learn more of the Fade._ She might have gone to Rivain, but no. His lips twitched. _The Avvar live in harmony with spirits and they are perhaps closest to the Dalish in terms of lifestyle._

Orange brows lifted. “Quite quick,” Not-Eirwen said.

“I am a great deal older than you,” he replied. "With a great deal of experience in these matters."

“And yet, hahren,” Not-Eirwen said. Her gaze left him, turning to the rest of the room. “There’s always time to learn something new.”

He shouldn’t have laughed, but he did. His smile pulled wide ruefully as he followed her eyes to the small bag resting atop a table in the back. _I missed this._ Even when conversing with only her shadow, Eirwen was more alive than any he’d ever known.

A bright white-blue flare filled the room, casting long shadows across the bags.

Then a small figure appeared. Gloved hands were hidden beneath a long cloak of blue linen, its hem cut off just above the ankles, and he saw small feet to go with the slight frame. They were quite short, too. Head hidden by a wide hood, he saw tiny white tips peeked out through holes in the fabric. Elven ears. Their thief was elven. _Could be mine._ That didn’t feel right. _Could be Qunari._ Also not right, perhaps a free agent? Solas almost shook his head. No.

They did not look around. Instead, they strode directly toward the back. Ignoring every single other object in the room, they moved with deliberate action. Reaching out with a single gloved hand, their right hand, they picked up the small canvas bag. Weighed the contents. Checked the seal. Tossed it up, snatched it, and disappeared in another pulse of blue-white light.

_No,_ he thought.

Yet, who else could it be?

The spell used was not from his time, too crude. Though other mages were experimenting, they’d either not made enough strides or, like many Magisters, more interested in recreating the eluvian network itself. Rebuilding the past or stealing what was for themselves. The Qunari hated magic. _They are not this inventive._ He swallowed. _And the one who broke in, they knew precisely what they came for and where they would find it._ He doubted that the Circle was so far along in their studies, further than the Collegium. Eirwen preferred to balance two sides against a middle, build them together so one never quite outstripped the other. So they might focus on each other, on the knowledge in front of them, and their own bickering.

The spirit wearing Eirwen’s shape glanced at him, her warm orange hair fluttering around her cheeks. “When you eliminate your prejudices, what remains is likely true.” Her lips pulled into a half-grin. “Even that which is most improbable.”

“Eirwen,” he said. “She has mastered teleportation.”

“For several months now,” the spirit said. “Where’ve you been?”

That was an ironic dig, he thought. And it worried him more. The spirit was far too close to Eirwen, both in manner and in feel. Like Justinia, the spirit became more than a simple reflection. It was. It had become Eirwen in body as much as mind. In spirit, unironically. They had done more together than merely shared a single flesh and blood shape. His hand clenched, and he fought back a surge of anger. “What is it you have done, da'len?”

“I?” The spirit asked. “Hahren, I have done nothing.”

All too innocent, Solas thought. He recognized that expression too. “Who are you?”

“Pomposity,” Not-Eirwen replied. “Come, _hahren,_ do you not remember?”

He blinked and, for a moment, he saw the spirit clearly. She, and it was quite clearly now a she, stood before him. Energy gleaming with a familiar bright orange-red glow as she studied him with those intense summer blue eyes. Yes, he did recognize her. He had met it once in old Crestwood when it was still an it and possessed quite a different personality. She had been known by a different name then. “Command.”

Not-Eirwen inclined her head, a smaller smile played on her lips. “The same as ever.”

He stepped forward, his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“She required the aid of one whose will would not break, who could do what had to be done,” Command said. “To change the waking world as was necessary, the softer virtues would not do. I alone had the ability and she the strength. Together, we created something new.” Her eyes turned back to where the portal had closed. “For the future.”

It did not make sense. What had they done? He wondered. What had they changed? He glanced back, rewinding the image and watched the figure in the cloak steal the bag of gems again. How could an act so mundane require enforcing ones will upon the world? “I am afraid I do not understand.” Had she truly become an abomination? No, he shook his head. If that had happened, then Command could not be here. They would be together.

Eirwen had been an abomination, but was not one now. Command had been in her body, but been released. Returned to the Fade.

The Avvar had shown it could be done, he remembered.

However, Command believed she had created something new within the waking world. Become more than both were before. He doubted she meant they had followed the same ritual. They had followed a different path. _Infuriatingly enigmatic,_ he thought. It was not the way of Command to be so cagey. Such a spirit was straightforward. Saw no use in cunning, nor subversion. Yet, here she was before him. Thoroughly amused by his frustrations. As Eirwen might have been. _Command does not lie._ She also did not make suggestions. She ordered. _Why has she lent herself to this?_ There was no purity in this state, only confusion.

“Why?” he repeated.

“The winter gale is uncompromising,” Command said. “Changing the world requires will, the ability to say it will be so and the strength to make it. She could be nothing less than what she was. When there was a choice to be made, she made none. She commanded what was to bend to her will instead.” The spirit stepped forward. “I came to inform you out of respect for the one that was, the one that is, and the one that will one day be.”

His knees weakened and Solas leaned back against the wall. “She is no longer Eirwen, then.”

“She has become more, whether that will be recognizable to what was remains to be seen.” Command stared at him. “You must go yourself and see, hahren.” Then, she shrugged. “Or do not.”

“You have also been altered,” he said. “Can you now truly call yourself Command?”

“It depends on the nature of your perceptions, does it not?” Command replied. “Can you truly be called Wisdom or Pride?” The spirit chuckled. “I bent. I could not help it. Do not mourn my lack of purity, hahren. I see now what is, what was, and what will be yet. I know time, and space. The emotions of joy and love, and sorrow, and regret. They exist within me now. I have touched mortality to find it did not make me less. I am more fully what I should be.”

He stepped forward. “And if I may, what, precisely, must I uncover?”

Not-Eirwen smiled. “The future.”

 

***

 

“We have been walking for hours!” Eirwen heard Morrigan snap. “Will we ever come to this door you promised, or was it perhaps a figment in the imaginations of whomever wrote those tomes?”

A slight smile tugged her mouth sideways. “We’ll see when we reach the bottom.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Mahariel,” Morrigan replied, her brisk voice cracking on the crisp air. “He was ever one to rush directly into danger, heedless of the costs.”

“Except, I suspect, he always went first.”

Eirwen watched Morrigan’s shoulder blades tighten beneath her jacket. “You cut quickly to the heart of this issue.”

“I could step ahead,” Eirwen said. “Yet, that would deprive us of whatever warnings the Well’s voices might offer.”

Morrigan snorted, but she continued to descend down the stairs.

Eirwen tucked her hands behind her back and followed.

The stairway wound deeper and deeper into the ice, until the pale gray sky overhead vanished beneath yet another sheet of ice and beneath that, there was no snow. Only slick black steps, headed downward, on the same unrelenting angle.

The whispers scratching at the edges of her mind grew louder, more insistent. Pressed against the outer boundaries, creeping up to her walls. They hissed, querying in confusion, and a few lumbered about, unsure of where she was. There were hundreds of them, thousands in fact, sleeping beneath her feet. For all the sound and scrabbling at the walls, they slumbered on. No closer to waking. Yet.

_That’s good,_ Eirwen thought. Neither she nor Morrigan would want to be here when they did. _Especially not Morrigan._ Servants of Mythal were not welcome in this place. _Or a relatively defenseless human committing blasphemy by carrying the will of Mythal’s high priests._ An easy target for dissection. _That’s why I’m here._ She felt a little like one of them, now. Close enough to be distracting while all Dirthamen’s sleeping servants fumbled toward their waking state, to convince them that the world they remembered still remained the one that was. Trapped down here, they had no concept of time.

_Falon’din led his forces to victory against Fen’Harel,_ her thoughts whispered to the voices. _It took time to undo the Dread Wolf’s work, much was destroyed._

They clamored at that, no different from the demons she remembered from her childhood. When her magical talent had emerged, the same kind of voices had come. Crammed in and crowded, all hungry ghosts ready to snatch away her skin. If anything, it was comforting to be confronted by something so familiar when walking into the jaws of the unknown.

“Your door,” Morrigan said. “’Tis close.”

“Did the Well’s voices inform you?” Eirwen asked.

“No,” Morrigan replied. “I see it just ahead, half hidden by the snow. I am not wholly reliant on my mystical abilities, yes? I do indeed still have my eyes.”

She smiled. Morrigan’s prickly nature was a strange kind of comfort. Still, her heart usually could be counted on to be in the right place.

“As you of all people should understand,” the other mage added.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “My mistake.”

Morrigan sniffed in a manner Eirwen assumed was meant to be aristocratic. “The voices do insist we be careful. The door ahead will be locked, requiring a mystical key in order to open. I can subvert it, but I shall require some time to prepare.”

Slowly, Eirwen nodded.

Past Morrigan, she saw the ground extend out and flatten as the stairs came to an end. It became a floor of solid black stone, smoothed not by water or time but hands. The floor led into a great cavern, with walls made of a similar black stone. It absorbed the light, dragging it deep into a shrouded darkness. Unnatural, the dark, as it did not obscure her ability to see. Beyond that, perhaps seventeen paces deep into the darkness, was the door. Her breath caught in her throat, coming to a frigid stop. She swallowed before her spit could coalesce to ice and catch on her tongue. It happened often these days, a creeping cold gathering inside her whenever her concentration broke. As time passed, she grew colder.

_Part of the price,_ she supposed, the cost of change. Nothing in this world of theirs ever was free. The greater the power, the greater the ambition, then all the heavier the weight. _And I am not content to remain small and powerless. I wish to challenge the stars._ To walk into the Void itself. To see all those who harmed the weak brought low. To pay the cost inherent in mutually assured destruction and leap feet first into the fire. There was no mountain which could not be scaled. No climb too great. Eirwen smiled. _The only path that exists is the one going forward._

Her gaze moved beyond the shadows to the door. A thick slab of obsidian, it stretched all the way to the ceiling in a wide arch. Similar construction to what she’d seen other Ancient Elven ruins, where all doors appeared similar in shape to eluvians. The sleek surface was slightly mottled by bumps in the black. A mosaic, she realized. Like the ones seen in the Well of Sorrows, depicting the various Creators. A stylized representation of the Evanuris who held sway here.

“May I?” she asked.

Morrigan glanced at her, then with a sigh let her pass. “Touch nothing if you please.”

“Well,” Eirwen replied. “We hardly know where it’s been.”

Eyes narrowing, Morrigan turned her head away.

Eirwen strolled down the steps, breathing deep. The cavern smelled different from so many old tombs, ones she’d once plundered across Fereldan and Orlais during her time with the Inquisition. Those were musty, usually. Generally full of mold, moss, and mildew, with rotten corpses and stagnant water. Full of debris, the cracked stone was a hallmark of half-collapsed dilapidated castles. Here though the crisp cold cut away all the other smells, everything but the chill. It wasn’t even wet. _Just cold._

She noted a few bodies hidden in the corners, the cold maintaining their remains. Fortunate as it made identification easy.

Keeping her hands carefully tucked behind her back, she crossed across the slick stone and avoided the more obvious blue-white patches of ice. There, she crouched over the first of the bodies. It was a he, and he was elven. He wore simple linen clothing, dressed for the cold. The corpse had the broad chest and less angular build that she’d come associate with the Ancients. _Possibly still left behind from the Fall._ Left die when the doors of the temple closed. From the way he lay, half on one side with hand stretched toward the door and a deep bloody gash on his back, she could see he had not gone willingly. _Died when the doors of this place closed and the elves within took up their vigil._

Her knuckles itched against her back, and Eirwen glanced toward the mosaic door with a rueful smile. She never could quite quell the giddy thrill in her stomach when it came to stretching a hand toward the unknown. Slowly, she stood. Her eyes lifting to the walls and seven wrought iron sconces built into each one as they lined down deeper into the darkness. _Veilfire._ No simple torches for Ancient Elves. Patterns had been carved into the black surface, blocky, bronze rectangles to create diamonds. Their perfect symmetry went beyond the skill of normal craftsman hands, not even the dwarves of Orzammar had the precision of the Ancient Elves. _Nor their love of arched ceilings._

Inhaling deeply, Eirwen traced the faint burn in the air and found magic inlaid along the carving edges.

_Times like this, I miss Solas._ It hurt to wonder what he might’ve said before their battle with Corypheus, and more at what he might say now. Her eyes squeezed shut, mouth tensing tightly. _It doesn’t matter._ She couldn’t afford to forget why she was here. _And he wouldn’t approve._

Her eyes dropped and a small smile curved the corner of her mouth.

_Not that I need his approval._

Or wanted it.

_He chose his path and I chose mine._

Eirwen sighed.

_No use dwelling on it now._

There was no going back.

She strolled up to the door, casually, just to see what Morrigan would say.

And was rewarded by Morrigan’s sharp snap, “must you belligerently ignore all my instructions?”

“I haven’t touched it yet,” Eirwen replied. She glanced back over her shoulder. “I don't intend to.” Her lips twitched. “You said nothing about looking, Morrigan.”

“Do not play the fool with me, Lady,” Morrigan said. “If I’d not accept it from Kieran, I certainly will not from you. You are hardly a child.”

Smiling, Eirwen stepped back. “You admit you’re ready?”

“If I’ve no choice, then yes.” Morrigan strode forward. “If only to keep you from mucking about and ruining all we came to do, whatever it proves to be, with your incessant need for exploration.”

“By all means,” she said. “Do as you will.”

“What I will?” Morrigan asked, heels clicking on the black stone. “I quite doubt your sincerity.”

She spread her hands with a slight shrug, and let Morrigan pass her by. There wasn’t much point in arguing. After all, what she said and how she said it could hardly be considered sincere. _One way or another, you will do it._ Her own desire to be free of her mother and Mythal would lead to the door being opened. _With or without me here._ And it would be with the Lady’s protection at her back. She had been with the Warden at the end of the Fifth Blight, she had commanded the dragon during the battle with Corypheus, Morrigan knew what it was to stand against the gods.

Eirwen doubted Morrigan wished to face them alone.

The other mage stood before the door, lifting both her arms as she stretched them out toward the mosiac. “You were correct in that it is a door,” Morrigan said. “However, it is not just a door with a mechanism which unlocks, but an eluvian.”

Eirwen stepped forward. “Fascinating.”

“You knew this already,” Morrigan said.

She hadn’t, but Eirwen smiled enigmatically anyway.

Morrigan sighed loudly. “When shall these tests of yours end?”

“When you pass them,” Eirwen replied. “Soon, I hope.”

Eyes rolling, the other woman turned away and flicked her fingers at the mosiac. The image shifted, flickered, and then bloomed a bright, harsh gold. There, within it, stood a shadowed figure in a billowing black robe and a raven on each shoulder. The hood lifted and, for a moment, a pair of piercing golden eyes met hers. Only hers.

It vanished in a blink.

And Morrigan lay a hand on smooth, blue-green glass.

The same color as any other eluvian, Eirwen thought. Yet it wasn’t. It only confirmed what she suspected.

“This eluvian is not connected to the Crossroads.” Morrigan did not sound surprised, merely curious. “I have studied those overridden by Fen’Harel at length, but not yet discovered a way to unlock those he closed.” Her hand ran down the glass. “This does not respond to any of what I have determined to be traditional commands.”

She stepped forward. “It requires a—”

“A specific magical signature,” Morrigan nodded, her voice drifting as her eyes shifted over the smooth surface. They took in the ripples, each and every single one. Its soft greenish glow reflecting in golden eyes. “Yes, I see.”

Eirwen crossed her arms, her smile turning faint. The figure in the mirror, Morrigan had not seen him. _He only sensed me._ She swallowed. _As expected._ That was good. _Even if it wasn’t, too late to turn back now._

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

It was already too late.

“Ah,” Morrigan said. “Here.” Her fingertips glowed with a blue light. “If one aligns their energy to the mirror itself…” then the colors shifted, flickering with gold and yellow sparks. In response, the surface of the mirror flared. “The path unlocks.”

Far, far too late.

“Would you like to go first?” Eirwen asked lightly. “Or should I?”

The glare she received more than made up for the question.

With a smile, Eirwen walked to the glass and pressed her hand to the smooth pane. Fingers clenched into a fist, she inhaled another deep breath. Letting the cold settle into her lungs, Eirwen lifted her head. There were simply some paths one did not return from.

She would fulfill her promise.

_I will save you, Solas._

Her jaw set and, pensively, she lay her false hand over her abdomen.

_However I have to._

Even if it meant, in the end, all they could ever say to each other was goodbye.

_I follow the path to where all fools go_ _._ As Eirwen passed her hand through the glass and stepped into the blue-green glow, the thoughts hovered in her mind. She didn't even dare send them out to the ether. Whatever she wished, it was for her alone. To be added to the unending list of her regrets, of could be and never would. He'd never know. Where this path went, it was well beyond what could be forgiven. To that end, they were the same. She simply refused to die or let him die at the end of it. _Goodbye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Eirwen's path to self-destruction (or victory) begins. This is what you get for leaving her alone, Solas. You know the same as I do, she gets into all kinds of trouble. We're gonna get into all kinds of trouble.
> 
> I promise. It'll be fun. ^.^
> 
> Eirwen and Morrigan amuse me greatly, they get a good rhythm going. It's pretty different from Eirwen's interactions with the other companions. Morrigan gets way more crap, and Eirwen enjoys playing with her. (And I can't say she hasn't earned it. I love you Morrigan, but you've got it coming!)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos. They do mean quite a lot to me. I've been talking with my friend TeaandInanity about some of Corseque's meta theories, which are fascinating to contemplate. I also borrow some for the Vorlons when I write the more cryptic spirits. Fortunately, they're not as cagey as the Vorlons. "Beauty in the dark". Still, we'll see how crazy on the power scale we get. 
> 
> I can't promise to contain myself, I mean we've already lifted a glacier.


	6. Chapter 6

Morrigan followed the Lady in Blue and White through the eluvian with arms crossed. The elven woman remained exceptionally irritating, she wore no more than usual and yet went unbothered by the cold. If anything, the very air around her seemed to bend to her whim and warmed her where others felt a chill. _Pity she cannot extend the effect beyond herself._ Though, Morrigan supposed, it was possible she could and merely chose to let others freeze. If that were not difficult enough, the Lady had an incessant need to poke her nose into every magical working. _I am half-convinced she does it purely to irritate._

She sighed.

 _You’d best hope her secret truly is worth any price,_ she told the voices. _Such an annoying fool hardly deserves so much assistance._

Stepping from the glowing portal and into utter darkness, Morrigan straightened. Her hand lifted, fingers flicking to summon fire into her palm. It sparked, and fizzled, and then died in a spray of yellow-orange and red. Again, she was in the dark. Alone.

“Lady?” Her voice echoed strangely, muted by the pitch black surrounding her.

No other sounds returned to her, no Lady’s voice. Only her own, resounding as if she stood within a cavern deep inside a mountain.

 _‘Tis like the Crossroads,_ she thought.

Yes, the Crossroads.

A vague, timeless space, where one’s own voice echoed on endlessly. With a sky that was not truly a sky and a ground not truly secure beneath her feet, held together by a crumbling power she could barely understand. Vast and empty, filled with mirrors connecting to other now hidden places kept by the Ancients of Elvhenan, it was a place in time yet out of time. One not unlike her own world in feel, at first. Yet she’d quickly discovered the difference as she inhaled its magic with each and every breath. _T’was a world built upon magic, by mages and for mages._

This place, she knew, was the same.

Built by mages for only them.

_Only elves._

Morrigan remembered lands filled with a gray and twisting fog, a blackened blue-gray sky. That fog, it had been an itch on her skin, considered her unwelcome. It had not been dark and pitiless with a silence which seemed unending. She’d not felt powerless.

Here, she could see nothing, and, though it felt similar, there was a creeping, nervousness which sank deep into her bones. Left her the sensation of a spider’s tiny pricking feet climbing up her neck. She barely noticed her heartbeat’s quickening, the terror mildly squeezing her throat, or the feeling of eyes watching from the shadows and voices she could not quite hear scratching at her mind’s edge.

“I cannot see you.” The words left her mouth, only for her cheeks to color immediately. They sounded plaintive, confused, and even a little lost. If she was caught unawares, surely it was the same for the Lady.

“Can you not?” came the Lady’s voice from deeper within. “Strange.”

The unconcerned quality left Morrigan nervous, even more so than she had been before. The Lady had been many things in her previous life, but unconcerned by risk and fear in those who followed her was not one of them. “Yes,” she snapped into the darkness. “If you could be so kind as to share your remarkable insight to those less fortunate--”

A gust of cool air blew out of the darkness, cold on Morrigan’s already frigid skin. “One moment.”

 _And the Lady raises a hand for silence._ Swallowing a sigh, Morrigan tapped her left index finger on the leather sleeve protecting her right forearm. _So silent I am, though it galls me._ Not even Flemeth could so quickly quell her tongue. _Without even being seen, at that._ She knew not what the elven woman did in the dark, yet she found it uncomfortable even so. Morrigan feared the Lady. _‘Tis a strange feeling, truly._ She had known Flemeth, understood where to push and how far to go before being faced with retaliation. The Lady in Blue and White was a mystery.

The Voices of the Well told her nothing.

Offered nothing.

 _They might only aid me with knowledge gleaned from the past._ How the Lady might be subverted lay within Morrigan’s own memories, her own dealings with the now powerful and enigmatic mage. _I acted from my knowledge of Leliana._ Acted as she might have during her early days with Mahariel. _When I foolishly believed that all heroes, particularly those blessed by the Chantry were the same._ Believed the Inquisitor and her power came about by chance, rather than drive. Chosen for their role by fate, without choosing it for themselves. Did not see a Dalish mage beneath the vestments of the Inquisitor, hiding away their true self behind a carefully constructed veneer of politeness, diplomacy, and conciliatory arrangements. Seen a cat, able to yowl, claw, and only able to leave superficial scratches rather than a tiger waiting to devour her whole. _I am also an apostate, one who stood in the Court and bowed my head before an Empress, I might have remembered._

 _Wait,_ the Voices said.

There were times when they conspired to be conspicuously direct.

Still, she had little else to do but fumble in the dark. Overturn five thousand year old pottery and terracotta bowls to the horror of some stuffy academic from Celene’s university. More interested in belt buckles than ancient treatises or long lost grimoires.

_‘Tis not as if I might return here on my own._

The Lady had not informed her of their location, merely brought Morrigan to this place according to her whim. _The unfortunate truth of transporting oneself across vast distances is that it requires more than merely seeing the location once._ There were countless other factors to be considered. All of which the Lady seemed far more adept at handling. _The turning of the world, the position of the moons, rapid calculations to ensure one does not end up inside a wall or a door, or inside a mountain with no exit. I could come out the other side nearly a hundred feet or more up in the air._ One had to know with absolute certainty where they were going when teleporting, and even then there were no guarantees. _I understand, suddenly, why the Ancients wished for a more reliable means of travel._

Only the Lady’s accuracy seemed frustratingly unerring, all the more due to Morrigan’s utter inability to discover how she managed it.

“Ah,” Morrigan heard the Lady say. “I sense it.” Another pause followed, no sound of footsteps on the cold, stone floor. Then, “If you are sensitive to sudden shifts from dark to light, you may wish to shut your eyes.”

She replied as she might with anyone, “I find myself unconcerned.”

No laugh followed. No sound, in fact.

Do your worst, Morrigan thought. Though, she doubted any maliciousness involved. _If there were, she’d not have warned me._ Yet Morrigan could not shake the gnawing in her gut. The Lady had told her little as to why they had come, and offered up less in the first few moments after entering this tomb. The elven mage toyed with her, a bit like a cat hunting its first mouse. _Any moment, one might be eaten._

A smile might’ve formed on her half-frozen lips at the thought.

It didn’t.

“As you wish.”

The voice which spoke was not the Lady’s.

She stepped forward and opened her mouth…

As the sconces on the walls ignited. Silver-white, yellow light burst through the room. Searing her vision, a harsh, electrified pain crackling in her retinas.

Morrigan threw her arm over her face with a cry.

She thought she heard laughter. The deep, rich throaty sound of a velvety baritone echoed in her ears, a masculine voice. Smooth, it slid inside her, almost silken, drawing her up and out of her skin.

“What I promised you,” the Lady’s voice slammed through Morrigan, knocking her back into her body, “is there on the desk.”

Blinking, Morrigan straightened. Tears leaked down her cheeks, large black spots spasming before her. They clouded in her vision, disrupting what she could see. On the eighteenth flicker of her eyelids, Morrigan finally found herself staring at a small, round room. Coffins lined the floor before her, four across and eight down leading the eye toward a raised dais at its end.

There, a larger and much more elaborate stone coffin rested beneath the spread wings of a gigantic bronze owl. Twin ravens, carved from some sort of obsidian blacker than the surrounding walls, sat paired on the owl’s shoulders and watching over the coffins with baleful eyes.

Rather than black, the stone walls were a deep midnight blue. They glittered, gleaming in the white light bursting from the surrounding sconces. The beneath her feet, the floor extended with mossy green tiles inlaid with gold and bore the circle and diamond patterns familiar to other Temples Morrigan had visited.

_I find myself beginning to believe the Ancient Elves were rather derivative in their artistic choices._

The Lady stood beneath the ravens, a beaming white light piercing from surrounding shadow. Her pale blue-white irises were fixed on the coffin’s lid. Her focus placed entirely upon the stone box. One gloved hand stretched out to run, almost wonderingly, across its surface. Red lips pulled sideways faintly, but her expression suggested grimace rather than smile.

Chill racing down Morrigan’s spine, she suppressed a shudder. Turning away, her eyes located a small secluded alcove at the back of the room. There, she noted, as the Lady had said, was a small glowing orb. _A crystal not dissimilar to the one she carries about her neck._ Her mouth tightened and she strode away from both the dais and its surrounding coffins. _In which countless Ancient elves no doubt sleep, waiting to be woken from their slumber._

She could only imagine the terror of what might be if they were.

_Woken in an unfamiliar world as Fen’Harel was, with gifts we mages dare not dream of. Less powerful to be sure than they might have been in their own time, yet still filled with ancient and dangerous knowledge._

These were, after all, Dirthamen’s followers. He had been known for his secrets, knew more than perhaps any of the Evanuris and shared none of it at all.

Slowly, Morrigan came to a stop before the desk. Her heels clicked on the stone. Stretching out a hand, she picked the crystal globe up. It was the only item on the desk.

A whisper snaked through her mind.

She flicked her finger up the side.

In her palm, it began to glow with a sickly purple light.

Then up popped an image, a scrolling collection of runes in Ancient Elvhen. They floated in the air, rotating slowly in a spiral. Clear and precise, cleanly labeled, with deftly formed characters. Faint particles drifted off each rune, trails of stardust falling to a moss green and black floor. Markers flicked up in the central display, branching off to separate files containing more specialized information.

 _Notes._ Morrigan blinked. _This place, t’was a laboratory of a kind. Dirthamen studying Mythal’s geas in order to insert one of his own as her High Priest so he might steal her secrets._

Indignant anger flashed, collectively, through her brain.

 _Fools,_ Morrigan thought as she slid the crystal away into a large pocket. _Did you all truly wish to be bound to my mother for an eternity? Did you believe I would accept such an unhappy lot?_ Whatever his reasons or desires, Dirthamen’s knowledge would be useful to her. _I must remember to thank the Lady._ The elven mage truly could not know what she had given her. _Soon, I will have no need of her aid._ Their short partnership would be at an end. _As intended._

The Lady might be a hero, but the world had many of her kind. Another, one more malleable, might be a better key to stopping Fen’Harel before he could destroy the world. _In freedom, I will have all the time necessary to learn the Lady’s secret without the aid she is unlikely to give._ A way to acquire that vast, almost incomprehensible magical ability for herself and for her son. Even for Mahariel, if he was willing and dared to dream.

Her smile pulled a little wider.

Yes, there was no need to worry.

With Fen’Harel defeated, her family would be safe. Immortal and untouchable, protected from the world. She could see it, and what she saw in her dreams could be made a reality.

A crash deafened her ears, stone rattling stone.

Morrigan whipped about, gaze returning to the dais.

There, the coffin lid lay smashed on the golden ground.

The Lady leaned over the opened coffin. Red lips pursed. Her right hand resting on the lip as she gazed down at whoever was within it. Then, her eyes widened.

A black hand snapped up to seize her by the back of her silver head.

Dragged her down.

“Lady!” Morrigan stepped forward as one hand reached for her staff.

The Lady’s eyes slid to her, lashes narrowed. Fingers flicked.

And caught Morrigan in a blaze of bright white-blue light.

 

***

 

Solas woke, thrust from his dream. His chilled skin creaking as he attempted to open his eyes. Mouth tensed, his brow furrowed, he swallowed cold saliva. Hands clenched on the arms of his great chair, he sat up.

As usual, he came to mess. Papers scattered across his desk. Leather bound tomes piled high on both the left and the right. A smear of charcoal trailed across the center, obscuring a meticulous several hours worth of work. Candle wax leaked off at the corner, dripping slowly into a cold puddle on the floor. He felt many of his agents scurrying in the hallways below.

Inhaling deeply, Solas pushed the chair back and stood. The faint rumble in his stomach suggested he was hungry. Ignoring it, he turned instead toward the collection of maps hanging on the far right wall. It had been marked recently, he noted, by Tan. A small red flag indicated that Qunari in the Arlathan woods had come under attack by Tevinter forces. The red defined their defeat by some sort of magic spell, a large spell that affected the land and surrounding area. Though, he suspected, they were unsure of how it had been accomplished. She had also attached a small slip of parchment with ‘Magister Claudius’ written in an elegant scrawl.

 _Another bit of aid sure to raise his standing in the Magisterium,_ Solas thought. His lips pursed. _Was it perhaps this new mage, the Lady in Blue and White?_ Though the name felt more appropriate to some villain in one of Varric’s adventure novels than the real world, he attempted to keep an open mind. He had acquired more than a few silly titles in his time.

Besides, those of Tevinter often preferred bombastic titles and nicknames. The less powerful the mage, then the more dramatic the name. _Veronica Nightshade, the Demon Bloodbane, Sweet Kisser of Poison Lips, Harekil’s Envy, the Lady Malicious and Malcontent, Blue and White almost seems commonplace by comparison. As with all things, they create no firm or lasting impression._ Tan had seemed to find her less than noteworthy yet still felt it worth specifically mentioning, which alone managed to peak his interest. _If this Lady was seen on the battlefield, Tan would have marked it._ Claudius was the only one in attendance. Claudius the old patriot with little power to his name yet suddenly rocketing up the ranks, in his dotage claiming a political power he’d never before known. _Suspicious._

He shook his head slowly.

_A subject for another time, I believe._

There was a more pressing concern. They’d believed the Inquisitor to be, if not entirely out of the picture, locked to a single position. Or, at the very least, traveling slowly by mundane methods. _A pace at which it would take her weeks to reach different destinations._ While she might have been anywhere, he could be sure that she was present at only a single somewhere.

Now, though, she might not only be somewhere but everywhere, anywhere she wished at any given time. _In the Orlesian court, visiting Antiva, traveling Rivain, or even spending her days with Dorian in Tevinter._

He smiled.

_I cannot help but be impressed._

His hands rested against the small of his back and his eyes flicked over the different points on the map. First to the flags marked in Tevinter, the reds, blues, and golds. All marking different deaths by magical and non-magical hands, either by restless slaves or a magekiller’s work. They were hired regularly to eliminate their rivals. His people had made few inroads in Tevinter among the various fledgling slave rebellions and undergrounds. They were far less desperate now than they’d been six months previously, and his agents told of greater organization among the disparate groups. A coalition of sorts in the making, though they could not find the hand bringing it all together. Only that it was some former slave escaped to the Marches, returned to set those in bondage free.

No name, though. No rallying cry. Not even a symbol.

 _I told Tan to keep attempting to reach them. Those elves in bondage have most cause to sympathize with ours._ His mouth twitched. _Eirwen will not be pleased._ She despised any other powerful hand meddling in elven politics, often deftly eliminating those rivals who disagreed or sought a different course. Unless he sought her out, he would most likely never be faced with her irritation. Yet he could not help but think of it. Eirwen had a way of sneaking into his thoughts, often appearing where he least expected to find her.

 _After encountering Command wearing both her appearance and personality, I find my memories even more difficult to shake._ It had not been easy before, he suspected now it might be impossible. _I should have known she would not wait forever._

Fingers twisting together into loose, jointed knots, Solas studied the map before him. Gaze shifting from Nevarra to Antiva then Rivain before falling to Tevinter. She could be anywhere by now, he knew. His mouth tightened. Yet, what mattered most was that she was not here, not with him. _And I? I am not with her._ She walked alone now, a veritable stranger. As a friend, he felt he’d come to some understanding of her nature. Now, as an enemy,  she was frustratingly elusive and contradictory. All his predictions smashed at his feet and he left to sift through the rubble, picking at his own notions of the woman he once knew from poor, distorted reflections in shards of broken glass.

_Where are you, vhenan? Where do you wander now?_

He could hardly guess.

Lips pursing, his eyes narrowed.

Why had she stolen the gems from within Skyhold, rather than requisitioning them for her personal use? He supposed it must have something to do with Command and what they had done together. Perhaps she felt those of the Inquisition in Skyhold would not understand. The remnants of the Templars, the Circle, even the Collegium, and the Chantry itself, none were particularly friendly toward abominations.

Solas frowned, brow furrowing deeply.

_She could only expect horror and disappointment, if not outright hostility._

And the very thought of her being made Tranquil… he could not pretend that fear had not kept him awake some nights, and probably now would for many more. Turned deaf to the world around her, even more so than those born that way, cut off from feeling. From emotion. Transformed to a… his jaw clenched tight. _It will not happen._ There was some question of whether or not it would even be possible given the Anchor when she possessed it, and now, well, perhaps. Still, the question remained in doubt.

He remembered her grin at the suggestion of tranquility. Of being captured by those still sane among the Red Templars, or other renegades, and forced to submit beneath the brand. A grin for the prospect of another stealing all that she was. It brought a gleam to her eye, a laugh left her lips.

He had not wished to call it glee in that moment.

Now, looking back, he was certain.

Glee.

It could only be.

She faced down death with a smile, go to hers with a wink and a grin. Defiant, perhaps even laughing, as the blade, axe, or lyrium brand came down. Undefeatable in spirit. Her care and caution was for those who followed her, and for her enemies. Eirwen understood she was not invincible, yet that never stopped her from leaping straight off a fifty foot cliff and into a high dragon’s maw.

Determined to choke it as it swallowed her.

 _It is not surprising,_ he thought. She would wander the world alone, take up her burdens alone, even as she was still overcoming her injury. _She insists on crossing the world handicapped, alone, and in pursuit of what I cannot guess._ If it had been him, then they almost certainly would have crossed paths. Or she would with one of his agents. Yet, they had not seen her. They could talk of nothing notable. _Only Tevinter and this Lady in Blue and White._

Solas closed his eyes and remembered.

Eirwen tracing her fingertips over his lips, feather-light, as he pretended to sleep. He remembered her elbow on his chest. Her breath warming his cheek. The way she leaned in close, teasingly close, as she watched him with warm, summer blue eyes.

“You see, Solas, I want to find where…” she seductively breathed into his ear, “you’re…” then her other hand snuck under his shirt hem and raced over his ribs, “ _ticklish!”_

Solas remembered laughing as she tackled him, as one leg swung over his waist, and she rolled onto him. Those clever fingers mercilessly sought his soft spots, traveling up his chest toward his arms.

Catching her hands, he’d flipped her over. Attempted to return the favor. Her laughter, he remembered her laughter. A generous laugh, comforting in its warmth, which only ever grew rarer as the months passed. He wondered now if she opened herself to moments of joy or if she’d grown harder, colder. Lost her spark of warmth, of life.

When he’d known her in Skyhold, she had been in the summer of her youth. When they met again at Vir Ghilan, he saw how summer gave way to autumn and time marched on. Even the most marvelous of individuals were not spared in this strange world of his making. Time could not be fought only endured as the seasons buried all beneath their imperious weight.

 _How soon then before autumn turns to winter?_ He wondered. Until eyes that reflected the sun’s warmth in the sky turned cold and gray, harsh as the frigid wind which whipped the tundra. When what was welcoming grew cold, and not even a bonfire’s heat could keep its creeping chill at bay.

This memory happened during one of the few times he acquiesced to laying with her in her bed at Skyhold. Only a few, as more would have been a betrayal. The few he had spent already were. Much as he tried, he could not relax into the lie. He’d found comfort in it. In warm laughs, arms wrapped around his shoulders at odd hours, and intentionally sloppy kisses pressed to his cheek. In his own compromises, when he swallowed his hatred for tea to sit up with her late into the night as she turned over requisition orders, troop movements, and supply chains. Over her own insistence that he rest.

 _After all,_ he remembered, _if you refuse to rest the proper amount then how can I?_

Her eyes flicked to him when he said it. An irritated glare over the top of her papers. _Sleep,_ she’d said.

He had replied, _you lead by example, Inquisitor, as you continue to work through the night so must I._

The bridge of her nose wrinkled as her brow furrowed into a slight frown and her left rose incredulously. _Our scholars all have questions they need your friends to answer._ Her lips curved into a victorious smile. _So, ma vhenan, an all-nighter means you in your bed._

He’d laughed then. He always did. With Eirwen all attempts at solemnity fell short. He never could hold back or truly hide his amusement. Nor the fact it warmed him when she referred to those spirits he consulted as friends.

She did not see them in the same way, had her difficulties in accepting them. Eirwen never was quite comfortable with them, which he attributed to ignorance and poor initial experiences. Like so many young mages in this age, she’d been left to fend for herself. Learned the tricks necessary to keep the hungry and the desperate at bay. The Dalish were slightly more free than the average Circle mage when it came to their understanding of spirits, yet remained extremely limited. He was not surprised her Keeper could not help her.

_The brighter the spirit, the more attractive it is to those who might wish to use it._

In the Fade, she did little exploring. Succumbed to sleep rarely. Yes, she learned what he had to teach. Yet also balked on occasion, found excuses if he pushed too quickly. Had difficulty admitting her fears at first, because she worried he might think less of her. _How could I?_ When, unlike so many, she struggled to keep an open mind. Her willingness to try with Cole had given him hope. Whatever nervous fears or lack of comfort she had, Eirwen never treated him differently than she might any other person.

Now, there was the changed Command. A spirit she allowed into her body, shared her knowledge with. What had driven her to overcome those deep seated fears? Was it desperation? Or had the Avvar made a more compelling case?

He sighed, opening his eyes. His bed was cold now and he rarely slept in it, preferring instead the cold, uncomfortable chair. Penance, he supposed, to wake with his bones aching, muscles stiff, and neck crooked at an odd angle.

Tan had already ordered him a fine bed, not quite so comfortable as those of their own time but serviceable to his needs. He could stand up from his desk, walk no more than ten feet to the nearest door and exit into a bedroom readily prepared. There was no need for him to remain at his desk both day and night.

Tan insisted it was foolish.

_She is correct._

It was.

This payment for all those nights Eirwen slept at her desk, a foolish sentimental action. One which affected nothing. One he was best served by letting go.

Untangling his fingers, Solas stretched out a hand and lay it over the marker in the Frostbacks. The tiny red flag meant to designate Skyhold pressed to his palm. Warm flames burned Inside the tiny wooden pick, his memories. Days of smiles, laughter, and long discussions about magic, politics, and philosophy that went well into the night. A nose nuzzling his cheek, lips brushing up the inside of his ear, fingertips trailing his neck, and a coy grin pressed against his back.

Eirwen had promised to find a way to save him, to prove him wrong.

Now…

Now, she seemed to wish as much distance between them as was possible.

_As Command seeks me out to say I must go and see._

His fingers pressed to the map, leaving slight indentations in the leather. The pointed tip of the flag buried in his palm. Despite her playfulness, the spirit had been serious. The advice she offered was genuine and it came also with a warning.

_For the future._

Tan requested he let her go.

Solas’ lips pulled into a slight smile.

He could not.

_Yet, ma lath, I also cannot place your fate above that of the People._

“Forgive me, vhenan,” he said softly. “Much as I might wish it, I cannot seek you out.”

He would hand the task of locating the wayward Inquisitor over to his agents. There were other questions which required immediate answers. Turning his gaze from Skyhold, Solas lifted his eyes to Tevinter. The political situation there was growing unstable, moving away from his interests in the region. Where the disruptions, assassinations, and war bought his agents the ability to move in the confusion, it cut away routes necessary to transport information.

He had too few Elvhen to spare.

And not enough time to train the new mundane recruits.

They could not be everywhere.

 _We must settle for eliminating our rivals._ Then, and only then, could his agents finish laying out his plans. _Wherever they may be._

The Magister Claudius and his Lady, there was a problem for Fen’Harel to solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a little more time coming together than intended. Blame Morrigan. And Solas. In fact blame everyone. They're slow. I couldn't put anything up until after the holidays.
> 
> I hope you liked it!


	7. Chapter 7

Eirwen leaned over the coffin, stone cold beneath her glove. Her eyes drifted over the figure lying inside. A tall elf, their body shrouded in thick, flowing black robes. Impossible to tell their age or their gender, they melted away into the inky depths. Protected by smooth, obsidian walls and lain out on pillows of silk and velvet in the same immutable color scheme. The remainder of a hooded face was hidden beneath a simple, lipless silver mask.

Of the elf’s identifying marks of the elf, all she could make out were incredibly long, almost feminine lashes, the same immutable color as his cloak, and pale white skin nearly translucent in the darkness. If she had not known exactly who she’d come to find, she’d never guessed he was male. Or, for all the iconography, to be one the nine Creators worshipped by her people. Lord of Knowledge, and the Keeper of Secrets.

_Dirthamen._

Behind the mask, the lashes flickered. Eyelids snapped open.

And she stared into glittering, golden irises.

A crack echoed through her.

Then, Eirwen was floating.

Not in air, but encased by water. Locked in place. It swirled around her, liquid climbing up her nose. Quick, jerking breaths left her sputtering. Filled with the desire to claw at her own throat. Water soaked her skin, caught in her throat. She coughed, mouth opening. A sharp intake of breath only inhaled more water.

_Not real,_ she ground out to her mind. _It’s not real._

An index finger pressed to her lips.

Her eyes rose to meet the same, piercing golden gaze.

Words filtered through her in fractured elven, ancient elven. _Ar... tu... dirtharan._ More understood in parts than in the whole. A silken baritone, cold at the edges, yet with a surprisingly warm undercurrent. It clawed at the inside of her mind, almost laughing. Almost humorous. His fingertip dragged down her mouth and she felt the tightening grasp around her throat.

His eyes narrowed.

Then, the language switched. Grew modern. Changed in tone and shape as it whispered in her mouth. _I create it, so it is._

She shuddered.

But… Eirwen swallowed, she could also breathe.

Water raced over her fingers as she lifted a hand. It felt cool. It _was_ cool. Not the chilly mountain stream in Spring, an icy lake, or a cold ocean, but almost lukewarm like an Orlesian bath. Comfortable to sink into.

Eirwen hung still in the shadows, watching as they shifted back and forth.

She couldn’t see him, only his eyes. Felt his skin on her mouth, the twitch of a finger. _Also manufactured._ This sensation, her gaze narrowed on shifting shadows surrounding golden eyes, it wasn’t completely dissimilar to the Fade.

Before her the water rippled into a smile.

A flick of a wrist dragged her forward and the whole of Dirthamen’s face swam into view. A long one with high sharp cheekbones, a harshly cut jaw, and broad forehead complete with a tapered, pointed chin. His aquiline nose was just a little too broad at the tip and slightly hooked. The same, inky black hair floated freely around a visage of sallow, translucent skin. Razor thin lips, compressed slightly, quirked into an amused smile. The wide, deeply set liquid gold eyes overrode the rest. Commanding any gaze to leap immediately and be captured in their view, then held them. Hypnotic.

His eyes were the only part of him, it seemed, truly otherworldly.

_Or does he create what face I see?_

Water trembled with warmth of a chuckle.

Unseen hands drifted up strands of her hair, pulling apart her ponytail.

_No, not hair._

A tangled skein of something else.

_Memories._

The shadows rumbled. Dirthamen was speaking. _Fen’Harel tu Arlathan’din._

The same words echoed back to her. _So, Fen’Harel has caused Arlathan’s end._

She didn’t need to nod.

_Unsurprising._ The shadowed beat paused. _It was expected._

The hands moved deeper, spreading the strands with meticulous flicks. Single separated silver hairs wandered past her nose, drawn toward him on some invisible current. He picked them apart gently, and carefully as any weaver. When his fingers left them, each floating lock glowed with an intense silver light. Her memories came alive within them. She watched them walk the length of her hair.

The tiny child at seven hiding behind a tree as she watched humans scurry and scuttle in a nearby village, studying distant windmills and puzzling over their function. The kiss she’d stolen from a young hunter at Winter’s End. Feet pounding flagstones as she raced away from a shambling corpse at fourteen, thin golden necklace clutched between her fingers. Metal burned her fingers, angry ruby gem bursting with light. A hot blaze of red exploding in the night sky as Corypheus aimed a beam at her chest. The fires at Haven, hot stench of scorched flesh and the screams. Sir Barris’ face twisted as he lumbered toward her on pointed red lyrium tips, mouth contorted with rage.

Eirwen swallowed. The images shifted, tightened, and changed in tone. Instead of her, she saw elves. Bare faced, dirty, stained, damaged City Elves.

Elves at the Winter Palace, bowing and scraping before the human nobles in tattered sheets or faded livery. Elves in dashing around the corners in Circle Towers, dodging Templars. Elves baking bread in small thatched huts. Elves scrabbling in dust and shit in the gutter as they battled over a moldy slice of bread. Elves handing notes and missives to Qunari agents.

Elves as servants. Elves as slaves.

Free noble elves. Elves bare faced. Elves without vallaslin.

They lit up the dark waters like a night’s sky filled with stars. The glow managed to reach Dirthamen in his black shadow. Captured him in the same light.

Dirthamen in silver.

_Noble no longer._

Her body jerked. A hand clenched around her heart, squeezed.

_Turned to beasts._

Eirwen stumbled, forcing her body forward. _That’s right._ Her lips moved against his finger. _Beasts._ She narrowed her eyes, hot anger filtering through to tinge her thoughts blood red. _The People have fallen. Forgotten their heritage. Forgotten you._

Dirthamen’s grip loosened.

_Fen’Harel reigns free in a world gone mad._

_Ah._ Laughter reverberated through the water, rattling her teeth. _Such hatred. It could come only from one who knew him, and well._ A fourth hand brushed up her false arm, to the melted joint at what had once been her rotator cuff. Hard fingers dug into her skin as he seized it. _Another of his conquests, I see._ His lips spread wide, cruelly. Golden eyes turned cold, but not mirthless. Amusement glittered in his eyes, twisted his smile. _One of many in the thronging masses bewitched._ He chuckled. _Once woken, the betrayer’s mind tastes sweet._

_I am betraying him in turn,_ Eirwen murmured. _He betrayed me._

Dirthamen hovered much closer now, nose mere centimeters from hers. Her hands pressed flat against his chest, a bare chest. Felt smooth, water soaked, skin. Long black lashes narrowed around golden eyes, reduced them to slits. He hauled her in, a fish on a line, drawn ever closer to the surface and shore. Closer and closer, she came. Under the scrutiny of his golden gaze.

They plummeted.

Wind howling in her ears, she could hardly tumble. His iron fingers gripped her tight as they left the waters behind. The sky whizzed past, bright blue, white, and a faintly distant green. As they fell, her gaze caught floating golden palaces and flying barges behind him, twining crystal terraces spearing up past her. They glistened in the sunlight, glowing bright blues and greens. Smooth as blown glass.

Her eyes held onto Dirthamen’s, gold filling up her vision until he was all she could see. Her hand caught hold of his neck. _I won’t close my eyes._ Jaw tightening, her gaze narrowed. _I won’t stop looking._

His mouth twisted. Half a smile.

His hands opened.

Her grip slipped.

Eirwen slammed into the hard stone, pain lancing through her back. White spots spasmed in her eyes, sharp electric agony. Mouth opened, her vocal chords stretched raw in her throat, she almost screamed. Rolling onto her side, she tucked her knees up to her chest. Lashes squeezed shut. She exhaled, slowly. _Creators._

Swaths of cloth swished on the flagstones.

_Dirthamen._

Walking toward her.

Her eyes snapped open. Hand stretched out. Smooth stone greeted her fingers, cool stone. _Black like the shadows._ So dark it drank the sunlight. Her gaze swung up to the bare toes before her, peeking out from under the hem of a robe. Then, up the long carefully hidden body to the golden eyes.

Dirthamen knelt.

Gritting her teeth, she lifted her head. Pain snapped up her spine. Falling back to the ground, she clenched her fingers.

His hand was in her hair, again. A real hand, this time, warmly stroking back her bangs. This Dirthamen had not five hands nor six, but two. Like she did once.

_Such a strange feeling._ Lips pulling tight, Eirwen swallowed. As if she had been here before, as if she’d always been here. _Playing on my memories._ Her brows knit together. _Reminding me of... Fen’Harel._ Trapped, unable to move, and at his mercy. _Falling, always. Failing._ She watched Dirthamen draw away his hand, four silver strands reddened by trickling blood.

He paused, studying them. Mouth pulled to one side, slight, almost contemplative.

_Yes,_ that smile, _it reminds me of him._

The frown came next with slightly lowered brows. As if he guessed what she was thinking.

Or, hers matched his, knew.

Thin lips twitched.

“So…” his voice moved through her, low and rumbling from deep within his chest. “You are no raider like the other, come to plunder a forgotten tomb in the aftermath of annihilation.” His hand wandered up her hair, then down again. She heard his voice, yet his mouth never moved. “No supplicant come to bind themselves everlasting into my service. No seeker searching for wisdom long forgotten, to unearth that which is now ancient for sake of hubris.” Strangely soothing, his hands. “No, you entered ready. Both to bargain and to trade.”

Her heart quivered.

“I find myself willing to consider.” His deep voice warmed, warm shadows chilled by sunlight. “What is it you wish?”

Eirwen smiled faintly, her hand balling to a fist on the flagstones. Her breath escaped her shakily. “No… nothing,” she said, the word spasmed in her mouth. Pain arced through her back, head pounding. “I don’t… have... a request.”

His fingertips rested on her forehead. “Nothing?” They were warm too, surprisingly so. “No wish for your wolf to be eliminated?” His thumb moved to her temple. His words practically dripped with honey. “No call for revenge?”

“All I want is to set you free.”

A chuckle reverberated in her ears. “Such selflessness.” His thumb traced along her hairline, carefully avoiding her ear. She felt his smile tugging at the edges. “Do you intend to kill him alone, da’harellan?” The laugh followed, derisive. “Fen’Harel din’an ma. Melava din’an.”

_Little trickster, the Dread Wolf will kill you. He already has._ Her eyes narrowed. “Try me,” she whispered. “I am still breathing.”

“Perhaps.” His hand lifted. “There will be time enough.”

_When all things are yours, I suppose._

_All things already are, and have been always._ His fingers slid up underneath her mind. _I give you a gift, brave seeker. A new name to carry out into your world. Halamghilan, ma renan dirthim._

Eirwen swallowed. _Guidance has ended, In My Voice a Secret Begins._ Once again, her eyes squeezed shut. _Renan Dirthim._

A crack echoed.

She found herself staring into intense golden eyes, cold lips pressed to the surface of a silver mask. Hard gloved fingers gripped the back of her neck. Black lashes widened. Surprised. Her mouth pulled to a smile.

And she vanished in a blaze of blue-white.

 

***

 

Enaelgar Alerion strode through the deep woods. A shudder passed across the back of her neck, hairs rising as a chill wind rolled across the back of her neck. Long fingers nervously stroked the satchel at her side. Her lips pulled tight, pursed, attempted to twist themselves to knots. The moon glittered brightly through the clear skies overhead. As she looked upon it, she wondered once again at the sense in leaving her clan behind.

_Keeper insisted,_ she thought. _We must understand the new madness gathering on the shemlen Fereldan’s borders, know where it is the seth’lin flock._ If there was another battle between humans, if they had caused the disappearances of entire Dalish clans and swallowed them up into the dark then Alerion must be prepared. _If the humans are finally moving against us, then_ _Lavellan must be informed._

Though, Ena frowned, their status as a Clan now was up for debate.

After leaving their forests behind, and taken up a role as de-facto rulers in Wycome. _Little better than the seth’lin now._ _Abandoning our traditions for the ways of shems, for soft beds, gutters which stink of piss and dried vomit, and the human foods slathered in gravy._ Her own stomach roiled at the thought. Shit stored in buckets, thrown into the open streets. She’d spent more than one evening clearing pieces of refuse from her long black hair after some shemlen child, or even adults of the breed, unceremoniously dumped a bucket full out a window and onto her passing head.

Humans. Her teeth ground together. One could smell their stench for miles.

The woods were better, cleaner, and free of the horrible press of people crowding into every random corner. Homes smashed together, multiple wooden stories of suspect craftsmanship, blown left and then right in a cool breeze. Houses on scaffolding built from wobbly legs, shuddering about like a newborn halla struggling to stand.

_Why would any choose the cities?_ Why did the Keeper insist on her traveling all the way to Wycome? Why could she not simply pass the information off to one of the fool Inquisition scouts still combing the land? Were the shems and their seth’lin not better suited to menial labor? They maintained a close relationship with Clan Lavellan as they were ruled over by that blood traitor, the bare faced Dalish. _The Dread Wolf’s lover._ If rumors were to be believed. The one who dragged her own people into the cities for a slaughter, the shemlen pet. _Here to trick us into submission, to destroy ourselves._ Perhaps, even a piece of the Dread Wolf himself.

_Banalvhen,_ she thought fiercely. _Din elvhen emma him!_ Her hand moved off the satchel to grip the knife at her side. _She is no longer one of us._

She stalked down the path, cursing as she went. Not loudly, she didn’t think. Under her breath. Her eyes scanned the shadows, listening carefully. Yet there was only the soft rustling of nocturnal creatures in the underbrush and overhead. Distant owl hoots echoing out into the darkness.

Ena pulled her cloak tighter.

_I am a Dalish hunter,_ she thought irritably. _Guarded by Andruil, I have nothing to fear._

Besides, there was nothing there.

Just a strange sensation crawling along the back of her neck. _Laughing shadows,_ her satchel clunked against her hip, _laughing at me._ The feeling of being watched. _My own paranoia._

The trees in this area grew thickly, with thin trunks, and very close together. Forcing a trail already little more than a dirt strip to narrow, winding closer and closer together. Branches stretched out, bushes clawing at her elbows. Thick bristling leaves stuck at her cloak, scraping her travel leathers.

Despite herself, Enaelgar began to run.

_Is there some ruin nearby?_ _Fenhedis!_ The tavern keep in the last town she passed said nothing!

The wind howled past her. Shadows rippled out before her, cast by moonlight gleaming through tightening branches. Her heart hammered in her chest, pounding at her ribcage. In the distance, wolves howled.

_Did the Dread Wolf hear me?_ Terror chattered her teeth. _Has he come to take me?_

The path turned and she was racing down a hill, bare feet pounding the packed dirt. Ground slipping out from under her. She couldn’t even see the trail. Bushes grabbed at her shirt. Twisted up her hair. Tore long chunks free. _Almost like it’s alive._ She hadn’t wandered into a nest of sylvans. Had she?

Her ankle rolled out from under her and she stumbled, the ground gave way. Ena shrieked. An embarrassingly high pitched cry echoed through the forest. Drowned out the wolves. She toppled forward, tucking just in time for her back to smack the hard dirt. A root rammed into her back, up she went into the air, and vanished with a snap. 

 

***

 

Eirwen woke beneath rough wooden beams on a flat pallet surrounded by tall drifts of snow. Her back one thick knot, muscles screaming. Fingers scrubbed her forehead. She remembered the warmth of Dirthamen’s fingers on her head, the brush of skin on skin. The strange, certainty and comfort in their physical closeness like… she’d known him for… _No._ Her eyes squeezed shut. _No._

Dirthamen might not be remembered as the Lord of Tricksters, but he was harellan all the same. _A comfortable mind is more easily infiltrated, relax and they see what they will._ Her jaw clenched. _I came away with my life. Let that be enough._ Knees tucked up to her chest, she buried her face in the straw pillow. _Please, let it be._ Nose mushed into the itchy, crackling surface, Eirwen inhaled the slightly musty scent. _I wish it was a dream._ Lips pressed to a thin line. _Morrigan will never forgive me._ Not that it truly mattered. _Solas will finally have reason to hate me._ The corners of her mouth twitched. Well, perhaps that was all right. It made things easier in the end. _All that’s left is to go forward._

Slowly, gingerly, she sat up. Stretched her single right hand out before her, rolled her shoulders. One, her left, then the other. More out of habit than for any real reason. Her back protested, neck muscles firing as she stretched it to the right. Wincing with a sigh, Eirwen stood. Her gaze swept the small cottage, taking in her few possessions. There was nothing here, nothing except a tiny bookcase, a few small green crystals set out across the top, a single candle, a chair built of ice, and massive drifts of snow pressed against the walls.

There was a chest to her left filled with carefully folded clothes, a dresser and a vanity. A mirror for when she was required to look at her face. There only for the application of makeup and fixing of her now damnably long hair. _The Herald of Andraste sleeps on a hard wooden pallet with a pillow made of straw._ Her lips twitched, even as her back twinged. _Josephine would have fits._

Padding across the rough, wooden floor, she stepped out into the cold. There was no door at this end of the hut, just a fractured wall. A slim wooden door existed on the other side, but it served an altogether different purpose.

Undoing her ponytail with slim fingers, Eirwen tossed her head back. Wind howled past overhead, the sky churned a dark black, and an endless expanse of snow spread off through the trees to the horizon’s edge, where she could see jagged mountain peaks spiking up into twisting green heavens. Back on the earth, it crunched beneath bare feet. Her eyes swept round to tall pines circling the clearing’s edge, trunks spotted with thick bushes bristling with spiky needles. Darkness stretched beyond them, no light except that from the hidden moon.

Slowly unbuttoning her leathers, Eirwen made her way toward a tall pentagonal platform hanging in midair between five stone pillars. It was the only piece of the area’s original architecture remaining, revived from dismemberment and decay for her personal use. _Though,_ her mouth tensed, _not on my own._ She followed the stone steps up, ignoring the aches and occasional shooting pains until she reached the golden railing and steaming waters of what had once been a massive public bath.

Tiredly, a flick of the stone at the base of her throat banished her Tevinter robes back to the chest where they belonged. Then, she slid over the edge and slipped into the waters. Its warm embrace surrounded her, soothing her beaten back. Eirwen squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled another deep breath, let taut muscles slowly unknot. Too tired to think, too tired to truly plan, she sunk deeper. _I wish I could sleep for a thousand years._ Allow Uthenera to take her now, and simply drift away on the cold air like steam. A simple gust to send her racing up into the atmosphere and away, dispersed into a billion pieces to be scattered among the stars. Never to come down again.

_Become one with the stars at last._ Her mouth twisted. _A beautiful dream._

Eyes opening, she stared up at the golden arches twining together above her head. She recognized the restored fresco painted meticulously into the ceiling. Similar in hand to what Solas used to paint in the rotunda at Skyhold, it showed Mythal in the form of a dragon battling an ancient snake. _Andruil probably._ Her fingers clenched, right hand balling into a fist. Wolves stood on either side of the dragon, a white wolf and a black one. The owl with wings spread gliding over their heads. _Dirthamen, perhaps, and Fen’Harel._ The iconography for one was often far more confusing than the other. Her mouth yanked sideways. _Two individuals I’d want staring down on me while I’m in the bath._ A fist swept the water, disgusted. She rolled over, and let her lashes fall shut. _I must be in Norba tomorrow. Plans to dispatch Magister Cornelia must proceed according to schedule._ There were only so many opportunities to make a statement. _I must succeed._

If everything went according to plan, if those leading the Resistance in the area held up their end of the bargain, if her new friend answered her call, if… _If, if, if… one way or another, she dies._

Eirwen lay her head against the corner of the tub, flat on the surface. She didn’t smile. There was nothing to smile over. Just death. _And all the emptiness that comes with it._ With a sigh, she reached out a hand to the small blue crystal lying on a small alcove just above her head. A Tevinter sending crystal, one which had formerly belonged to Calpurnia, and stolen from amongst the myriad of treasures kept in Skyhold’s vault. _An invaluable tool for any resistance movement._ Doubly so as it didn’t require a mage to be used. The Magisters of Tevinter generally kept them under careful lock and key, but the Venatori had not. _Dangerous though._ Dorian had taught Leliana, Vivienne, and herself a great deal in terms of keeping the communications private. _Yet, they can be tapped._ Her mouth thinned and she waved a hand across the small blue bauble.

“Milady,” a scratchy voice filtered through the magic link as the crystal began to glow. “Was expecting to hear from you yesterday.”

“I know, Red,” Eirwen replied. It was not his true name, but they never used their names. “I ran into unexpected difficulties. Report.”

“Magister Cornelia still has not moved yet. No indications anything is amiss, other than the usual precautions. It could be she believes all is well…” he trailed off.

“Or it may be a trap,” Eirwen finished for him. “Meant to lure us in.”

“Not for us, if it is. There is little reason for her to wait, less to believe so as she never has. Knowing our location and the agents within the city, she could crush us any moment she desired.” He drew in a breath. “No, if this is a trap then it is meant to lure whatever mage the slaves have aiding the Circle Square’s underground.”

Eirwen paused. He meant Norba. Her fingers traced small circles in the water dripping to the golden surface. “Then, we will see.”

“Yes, milady.”

“You needn’t call me that. We all agreed on a less ostentatious name.”

He laughed. “To call you by any name other than what you are would be a betrayal, milady. You know it as well as I.”

She sighed, her head pounding. “At least use the full.”

“So insistent, Lady Blue.” The grin in his voice was far too obvious. “Or shall I risk your wrath? Eh, Mother?”

“Do yourself a favor, da’banal’ras,” if anyone was listening, she’d outed herself as capable of speaking elvish, “find a nice little lad or lass who might manage to stomach your face and a tall haystack.” Her head tilted. “I trust you can work out your itch from there.”

“Of course, _Mamae,_ ” Red replied. The word rolled off his tongue awkwardly. “I may be poor in looks and luck, but I shall take your advice to heart. Preparations finished on your end?”

“Perhaps. We shall see.”

“Ominous, milady.”

“Quite,” she replied, unable to mask a slightly cheerful tremor in her tone’s undercurrent.

He chuckled. “Rest well, Lady Blue.”

For a former slave, Red was often far too sly when it came to authority figures. He understood the value of respect, but often refused to bend knee except in jest. This was doubly true when it came to mages. _I wish he was mocking me._ A thought far less troubling than a reality in which he meant it.

Eirwen ended the sending with a wave of her hand, laying her head back down. If only he knew, she thought as her eyelids fell shut. Danger awaited her in her dreams.

She was never safe, not even there. Quietly trusting sleep well beyond her grasp now, if it had ever been within it. _If only..._ her jaw clenched. _If only I never had to wonder, worry, wait, or hide._ Even when her mind was protected, sleep was never easy. Running from the Wolf, instead of standing to face him. _There are too many unknowns._ _Not enough known._ It wasn’t that he might hurt her, he could. She knew it. _It’s what he’d find out. What he could see._ Secrets of hers, secrets he had no business sticking his nose into. Secrets which would hurt many others far more than herself. _And..._ her mind fell to her left shoulder and the arm she could still feel moving, but wasn’t there. _I don’t want to see him._

Still… Eirwen yawned. Couldn’t… fight…

_Sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirthamen cometh. Dirthamen. Dirthamen. I have nothing else to say on the subject other than this week and month have been very rough in terms of family and getting hit by a drunk driver a few days ago. That wasn't fun. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> Whee!


	8. Chapter 8

Enaelgar woke sharply, with a scream that didn’t quite manage to escape. It got stuck halfway, strangled in her throat. Like a gag stuffed down her mouth, a working jaw with no sound. She bolted upright. A sharp hand caught her chest, heel digging into her skin. _Bare?_ A flush colored her cheeks. Someone had removed her clothing. _Or something._

“Peace, little one.”

Glancing up, Ena found herself captured by a brilliant pair of violet irises. They stared at her, starkly surrounded by sagging, wizened skin. Mouth clenching, jaw slackening, her lips compressed, and she almost screamed again in horror.

Fiercely tanned to a reddened, if robust brown. Yellowed at the edges, where sagging crags met cracked lips. A long, slightly bulbous nose hung above that thin, contorted mouth, and led back up to vibrant eyes, then up further again to a broad forehead. She counted almost a thousand creases crunching down, one upon the other as white eyebrows, practically huge fuzzy caterpillars, twisted to a frown.

Her hand slammed down on the bed, scrabbling to her hip for a dagger. She found only cloth strips. _Where are my pants?_ Heart hammering in her chest, she whipped back toward the old woman. “S-s-stay back, shem!”

The old shem grinned, a toothy and yellow grin. Bits of brown stuck between her teeth, like she’d spent the last week chewing Craftsmaster Mennus’ fendhis reed. They clung to a pair of oversized front teeth justting out like a rabbit’s. “If you like, da’felassan.”

Ena winced. It only seemed appropriate, a shem reminding her of a rabbit.

The old woman lifted clawed, bony fingers. “However, if not, I’ll be unable to change your bandages.”

_Little Slow Arrow,_ Ena translated thickly, her mind swam. Less pain, she felt nothing. Confusion only. So... “B-bandages?” Her eyes dropped to her chest, mouth slackening. To her horror, a bit of drool escaped out one corner. Swallowing hastily, she shook her head. There were bandages there, thickly wrapped in long diagonals across her breasts and underneath her arms. Then, it clicked. _Slow Arrow. Insult. The shem is insulting me!_ “I’m not slow!” She straightened, only to wince at her back’s twinging. “Elvhen is our language, shem! You are unworthy of it.”

The old woman laughed, a rattling, rough, scraping laugh which twisted the tongue into knots. “As it is mine which form the words, I suppose the music itself is questionable.”

Ena lifted her chin. “It is.”

“Ah,” the old woman sighed. She sat back, reaching into the basket sitting on the polished stone floor at her feet.

Blinking, Ena swallowed. _Stone?_ She lifted her eyes, the walls of her small room were stone also. Granite, she remembered. Recognizable by the stringy black streaks similar to wood and peppered freckles marring the slate grays. Craftsman Pylun had a fascination with one of the dwarven stone masons who worked in the quarries of Amaranthine. He liked to go on and on and on about different kinds of rock. Never stopped shoving it under her nose, gabbing on about how brilliant the dwarven lass was. How one molded and shaped brass with heat and forge, instead of shaping it from the ironbark. _It was just rock though._ Here, she could swear the smooth gray walls were moving, shifting, and possibly reshaping themselves.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to know how you nearly lost your legs, eh?”

“What?!” Jerking much harder, Ena attempted to wiggle her toes. “How?” They shifted vigorously beneath the blanket. She whipped her head back to gaze at the old woman with wide, wild eyes. “You lie!”

“We filled you up with sellis potion and nimbus leaf to numb the pain when our scouts brought you in. You ran afoul of sylvan territory, girl.” Ena blinked when a sharp knuckle rapped her nose. “They were attempting to warn you off the path. You ought to have listened.”

“Sylvans…” Ena trailed off, staring at her hands. She twitched her feet again, just to be sure.

“They’re not known for using the gentlest methods of persuasion.” The old woman shook her head. “I thought Clan hunters with those,” an imperious finger poked Ena roughly in the forehead, “initiation rites had more forest sense.”

Cheeks burning beneath Andruil’s vallaslin, Ena opened her mouth. “I _followed_ the path I was _supposed_ to take. I didn’t ask for the wretched sylvans to be there, did I?”

The thick, stringy, caterpillar brows rose. Cracked brown lips caused paper brown skin to yank up to one side. The old woman chuckled. “You are strange for one of your people, girl.”

“I am not!” Ena snapped. “I’m just like every hunter in my Clan!”

“Then,” the old woman said slowly, “Clan Alerion is entirely foolhardy. Lie down.”

“No!” Ena yelled. “I feel fine! This is probably some shem trick! You probably drugged me! No! You did drug me! How do you know where I’m from? Did you go through my things? You haven’t answered any questions! You haven’t even told me where I am!”

The old woman sighed. “You landed close to us here in Samhalvhenan, within the valley of Samhalboran, deep within the Sunless Lands.”

_Our Heart’s Laughter Dwells, The Place Where Laughter Was Lost,_ Ena frowned. “Those are an elven words.”

“So they are is, da’felassan,” the old woman said. “Named by an elf, a Dalish in fact.”

“So, you humans stole it, then?” Ena growled, nails digging into her hands. “I see no elves here!”

The old woman’s brows lifted and she smiled wryly. “Da’len, truly.”

“Stop insulting me,” she snapped. “And stop speaking elvish! You’re a shem! Not one of us!” Sucking in a breath, Ena hunched. Her back immediately protested. _Not my best idea._ Jerking upright, she yelped. Hot fire flared in her lower back. _Worse, so much worse!_

“This is why I wished to change your bandages,” the old woman said in a very mild voice. “However, you are in no danger. You will be tender for a few days, but any soreness you feel will soon pass.”

Her lips parted and, gingerly, she leaned forward. “Sunless Lands?”

“Far to the south of the Kokari Wilds in the Uncharted Regions.”

“That’s impossible!” Angrily, she shoved away the old woman’s bony hand as she reached for her. “I can’t be! No one goes to the Sunless Lands! There’s nothing there! Ice, ice, and more ice... and... and… and b-b-b-b-Blight!” The word escaped but her cheeks burned. “Only shem idiots explore there!”

“And I suppose the Chasind are how it came by its elven name?”

“No but…” Ena trailed off. “I was on a route edging round the Kokari Wilds, to take the path through the Brecilian Forest to Denerim!”

The old woman tilted her head. “Why would so young an elf go to Denerim?”

“So I might buy passage to Kirkwall!”

The old woman paused, then nodded. “Ah, your missive to Clan Lavellan, yes. Hahnral mentioned it.”

_That’s another elven name._ Ena stiffened. “What do you know of that, shem!”

“No more than that, I assure you,” she said. “However, you needn’t worry. We sent one of our runners to Wycome, it will be delivered into the Council’s hands directly. Far safer than sending a young impressionable elf through the Free Marches pisshole. No matter how clean the new Viscount has claimed to make it, Kirkwall is Kirkwall. Hub of slavers, smugglers, gamblers, drunkards, simply a stop over point for the Carta and the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild, which is all of the above. You’re as like to wind up bound, chained, and on a slaver transport for Tevinter as you are to disembark on the docks.” She cocked her head to the side. “That is if you even managed make it through Denerim and procure passage.”

Ena gritted her teeth, lifting her chin. “That’s why I was making the journey, because it’s difficult, to prove myself.”

“And, perhaps, die trying.”

“The Mother of Hares accepts many sacrifices,” Ena replied softly. “It’s one of our duties in Her name, if my time came due then that is how it would be.”

The old woman snorted. “Be wary of sacrifice, girl.”

Ena opened her mouth.

“Easy acceptance negates the critical thought necessary to succeed.”

Her jaw snapped shut, molars clicking. _Shems,_ she thought bitterly. Always lecturing, always meddling where they didn’t belong. _Picking at me_. Her lips puckered, pressing together, cheek tucked sideways. She frowned, sourly biting her tongue. _What does she know?_ What had Clan Alerion’s Huntsmaster said when she asked? “Mother of the Hares gives and takes as is her will,” Ena muttered, fingers intertwining. “It is neither my place to question nor to judge.”

The old woman’s mouth opened, but whatever she meant to say was waylaid by the door’s heavy creak. “You ought to thank Lenala,” a, slightly high, male voice said. It was sharp, undercutting, and filled with cool reproach. “She and our other healers saved your life.”

Ena’s head snapped sideways, eyes rising past the horror of the old woman face to the man or, at least, she expected a man. But it wasn’t. Not at all. A male elf stood in the doorway, and not a seth’lin either. A Dalish elf, perhaps no older than twenty six, bearing the recognizable blue vallaslin devoting him to June on his forehead and down his cheeks. His features were strong, a thick and razor sharp aquiline nose, over a full mouth, tall and sharp cheekbones softened by large charcoal gray eyes. The tallest she’d ever seen, he towered above the bare faced elven woman crowding the doorway behind him. _He must be five foot seven. No! Near eight, at least!_ Perhaps, she wondered, perhaps even nine. The sides of his head were shaved, and he wore cobalt hair in a single braid down his back. He had brown skin weathered by the sun, with reddish undertones. Rich and earthy, it reminded her of childhood summers spent casting stones into the Alperon. When she’d still been foolish enough to dream of the Creators blessing her with magic, so she might continue her mother’s legacy in service to the Clan.

“Ah, Hahnral,” the old woman, Lenala laughed. “Have no fear for my feelings, the lass has come through a shock.”

Charcoal gray eyes swung away from her. “Sheltered?”

_Hey!_

“Quite.”

_No!_

“I see.” Slowly, he set the bag down on the smooth, polished stone floor. “What a rare beast, a sheltered Dalish. She must be something of an oxymoron.”

Ena sat forward. “I’ll have you know that I--”

Black brows arched as he cut her off. “When the Sylvans brought you to us, you were little more than a corpse.”

Ena’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. Seranna ma, now, will you--”

“They’ve proven to be somewhat overzealous,” added the bare faced elf. “We wanted to get a look at you.” She flanked him, protectively, carrying a polished ironbark long bow tipped on each end with white deer horn. It was unstrung, and carefully wrapped in oiled canvas. Ena only noted the ironbark from coloration along the edge. “Too many deaths lead to uncomfortable questions.” Slate gray-blue eyes flicked back to the Dalishe elf, Hahnral, “Perhaps we ought to request the Lady speak with Grandfather Oak, see if she can settle him.”

_She says that name with such reverence,_ Ena thought. Yet, no one questioned it. _I invoke Andruil and they laugh._ Was Lady another name from the shem goddess, Andraste?

“We must establish our own relationship with the Oak,” he replied. “You know this, Den.”

“Mother will not always be here to defend us or negotiate,” the seth'lin, Den muttered in a tone Ena hoped was sarcastic. “I am fully aware.”

_Mother? Do they… worship this Lady?_

“Grandfather Oak?” Ena asked. Her hands twitched together, knowing she should keep her mouth shut. If they continued speaking, she could get… what? _Information on these rude and mad fools, I can’t understand?_ Such good it would do her. “The Lady?”

They both glanced at her, and, to her left, Ena thought she saw the old shem’s fleshy lips peel into a toothy, yellowed smile. “Grandfather Oak is a leader of sorts among the Greenwood Sylvans.”

“Sylvans don’t have leaders,” Ena snapped. “They’re _trees._ ”

All three laughed.

“Intelligent, maybe, sometimes,” she added, “but they’re still possessed and angry. Sylvans are no one’s friends.”

“Perhaps not friends,” Den said. She rubbed her nose, and lifted her blue woolen scarf over it. “Allies.”

Ena crossed her arms, her eyes fixed on the only vallaslin in the room. Though, she doubted he was much better. _To side with these over his own kin._

“I’d like my things returned.” She turned, trying to swing her legs over the bed.

They didn’t budge.

“We came to see how well she was recovering,” Hahnral said. “The Huntsmistress would like to speak with her on the state of our Dalish kindred.”

Ena blinked, thrashed her legs, trying to whip her ankles over the edge.

“Is she ready?”

“In body,” the old woman, Lenala said, calmly to her left, “though, perhaps not in mind.”

Their voices were growing distant.

“Change is difficult to accept.”

Lenala, that was Lenala wasn’t it?

“Let her sleep and dream, hold to the old world a little longer.”

Ena felt her lids flutter, her body hitting the bed with a thud. Her eyes rolled back, and she found herself staring up into a pair of crystalline eyes. Silver as stars. Surrounded by a violet twilight. Beyond that, no darkness. Not of night, but a bright sky of liquid green fire.

_Mythal’s Mercy._

“It is a poor time to wake and see old hopes die.”

“When wishes are granted,” that sounded like the seth’lin, “in a sea of blood. Yes, I remember. A new age for us all.”

“May her Creators help her,” this voice was soft and more than a little sad. “This is not a good time for children.”

The hard thwack to the back of someone’s head and a disgruntled cry was the last Ena heard before she slipped into darkness. Guided by the cold and distant silver light, starlight. A swath of burning stars in a black-green sky. She felt herself cradled, warm hands guiding her to sleep. Strangely safe, though she had everything to fear from these strange people who allied with sylvans and built a stronghold in caves of living stone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're going to get a bunch of updates, since I wrote a lot and the chapters were long, so I hacked them all in half. So now they're tiny. Yay.


	9. Chapter 9

Strolling among the high alabaster walls and terraced hanging gardens of Magister Claudius’ palace, Solas found himself far more at home than he ever had in the likes of Val Royeaux or even the cold gray monstrosity that was now Skyhold. A great path of sandstone gilded in copper and gold stretched out before him, winding through great hedges and wide palm fronds. If there was one thing he’d come to admire about the Tevene people, the only thing perhaps, it was their love of green.

Vast gardens filled with flowers in every shade of red, violet, and white. Great dangling flowers with massive lips and long spikes snapped at passing insects. Lotuses in a glittering pink floated on smooth, clear waters in rectangular pools. Tall palms leaned off the tops of second levels as great vines lazed down glittering jeweled portraits inscribed into the wall. They were reminiscent of elven murals and mosaics, yet with more ostentatious flare. Where elves used gold and crystal, those humans of Tevinter drew on precious stones. Opals, rubies, sapphires, diamonds, sunstones, drawn up from deep within the earth. A fortune in precious jewels lined these walls by any nation’s standard, telling Tevinter’s favorite tale propaganda tale. _The rise of Tevinter’s Old Gods, and the conquering of Arlathan._

His mouth twitched, hands pressed to the base of his back. In the Fade, he passed among the slaves in their high golden collars like a ghost. There were some humans among them, but many were elven quicklings. They scurried and scuttled here, the same as in Orlais and Fereldan. _I might turn back the clock ten thousand years and see little difference._ Except now, now it was far worse. Disconnected from the Beyond by the Veil, they were little more than shadows. Dead to magic, dead to dreams, dead to what ought to have been their birthright. Lacking in the soul which bound all Elvhen together. In his attempt to safeguard the world, he had stolen the very heart of what they were meant to be. And returning it… _Returning it shall drive them all mad,_ he sighed, _even her._

The itch in his palms, the gathering dread in his stomach, all suggesting he ought to have taken Command’s advice was still there. Itching more strongly with each and every step down gilded glass hallways, lit by tall braziers and orange globes filled with light unfading.

 _With a hundred slaves bled each day to gain enough power to empower lights in all seven wings of the palace, spirits wander the halls as bound servants to sorcerers. As enslaved as the shemlen beyond these doors._ Slowly, Solas made his way up through the arched, pressed glass doors, following a servant carrying a silver tray with a small clear card toward what could only be the guest wing.

They followed a turning path, which twisted and jumped into new yellow painted corridors filled with rich wine red tapestries. When another approached, a large woman with red hair bound up and hidden beneath a triangular hat.

The boy jumped, card on his tray jostling.

The woman’s red brows lifted.

“I am to see the Lady,” the slave said, his voice soft. He was younger than the other, with a thick head of straw blonde hair and a long black coat tailored with sleek silver buttons. His hand itched at his sleeve. Beneath the thick circular embroidering along the cuff, Solas noted a thin waxy scar.

 _Burns from binding by rope,_ he thought sadly. _So, this boy was not born a slave but instead had his liberty stolen._ He studied the shoulders tightening underneath the jacket, stiffening the already starched material. _He is terrified also._ Terrified of either the older slave or this Lady. _Or both,_ he supposed. There was much in this manse for the young and unprepared to fear. Like all Magisters, including those with little to no power, Claudius kept a retinue of mages from smaller families. Though his was substantially smaller and more limited than those of his compatriots who played politics in Minrathous. He attracted more scholars than ambitious power players, drawn by his family’s wealth of literary resources, ancient if unusable artifacts, and rare mystical tomes. A slave had much to fear from an altus whose primary interests turned toward experimentation. If the Lady took up Claudius’ service, then it was probably that. A mage, of either little talent or great, capable of acting as powerful muscle in exchange for access to Magister Claudius’ litany of secrets. They had little ambition of their own for politics, preferring to establish their trade in laboratories and breaking of the innocent. Willing tools of those with less imagination, but more drive for worldly power.

His hands clenched, remembering the likes of June, Sylaise, Ghilnan’nain, and even Dirthamen. _Any would fear approaching such a mage, and with excellent reason._ One never knew when their turn on the block might come. When some trait of theirs, unknown to them, would catch the eye of one willing to wreck all they were.

The boy hissed something, something the Fade had not quite recorded. Then, he set off to the right and down another long corridor. His back far stiffer than before.

Claudius was married, Solas knew, unhappily so. His wife kept to her family estates close to the capital. Shamefully no children had been produced by their union. Though a myriad of elf-blooded bastards in the ranks clamored in their father’s service, hopeful to establish enough power in their own right to be named. Tevinter inheritance often proved vicious as siblings, cousins, lesser families heirs, and even half-sibling bastards vied to prove themselves to the family patriarch or matriarch. Many Magisters cared only about their legacy, those who had not secured a means to extend their own lives or those like Claudius’ father Allonius who bankrupted themselves and their family chasing imagined immortality, were stuck with their often imbecilic offspring. Or taken by those ambitious enough to murder them in their own beds. The strongest dominated in Tevinter, if the child was overcome by either mother or father then they were undeserving of carrying the legacy forward. Here, the weak gave way to the strong.

The boy continued further down the corridor, his steps growing more and more hesitant as he did. Then, when he was only a few steps away, he paused. He scuffed his foot. He wiggled his toes. Re-adjusted his hat, fixed the placement of the card on the tray, and fussily tightened his belt. Then, he stepped before a great mahogany door carved with intricate and loving renditions of Pride and Desire. His chest puffed, shoulders squared, entire body drawn up a little straighter as if held by a string.

Solas watched him, allowing concern to give way to amusement. _Perhaps I misread him._ This was not a child afraid of whoever was beyond the door, but one intent on impressing them. _For himself rather than out of loyalty to some other master._ It earned the boy a warm smile. _Even here, in the depths of misery, he has not lost his purpose._

Though this was only a memory some weeks in the past, he could not help feeling some kinship with this young nameless slave. He too felt curious to know what lay beyond that door, and it was growing clear to him as the boy stretched out his hand to knock, that this child had been to see the Lady in Blue and White before.

The knock echoed, and the door swung open with no sound at all. No servant aided it, neither spirit nor mortal. No magic that Solas could feel. Only the slow shift of a heavy door turning on its hinges, revealing luxuriant suite of silver, blue satin and white silks.

He stepped inside. Bare feet cool on the smooth lengths of dark, polished wood. It was real enough here as it was in the waking world. At the end of the far hall, he heard voices. They came from deep within the suite, a high rumbling male voice and the softer, sweeter sound of a woman’s.

 _Perhaps he was preparing only for his master._ Solas turned the corner after the boy and followed him through the glass doors into a small study.

“Magister,” the boy hurried across the room, bowing once he reached the long couch in the room’s center where a dark haired man lay horizontally. “I bring news from the Eastern Watch.”

“Ah, Rand,” the Magister said. “It is excellent of you to make such good time.”  

Yet, Solas suspected the boy, Rand had eyes only for the elven woman in silk sitting across from the Magister in a high backed silver chair. She radiated power and authority. Skirts spread around her ankles, one hand politely curved beneath her saucer while the other held a tea cup between a delicate thumb and forefinger. Long white hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back, curled into tiny ringlets. It pulled away from her face, revealing rounded cheeks, full lips, and a pert nose. Wide blue eyes, irises the same sharp aqua blue of arctic ice struck by sunlight, studied Claudius. The Lady sipped her tea politely, painted red lips tucking into a secretive smile.

 _Eirwen_ , Solas thought. For all the otherworldliness of her appearance, for all the finery, and careful application of more womanly arts she eschewed, it was indeed her. _She is the Lady in Blue and White._ The Lady in Blue and White, the pet of Magister Claudius? He nearly shook his head. _No, that cannot be so._

The Magister reached up to take the card from the boy’s fingers. If he cared that Rand’s head never turned away from his guest, he showed no sign. Pulling the card out its sheet, his fingers flickered with yellow flames. A sigil appeared on the card, seared into the card.

_Elvhen by the look of it. Harel, the sigil for fear, deceit, trickery, and lies._

Rolling it over in his hand, Claudius shook his head and tossed it onto the table between himself and the Lady in Blue and White. “What make you of this, Lady?”

The slave boy, Rand bowed low and retreated.

Solas stepped around him, he was now where he needed to be.

Slim, delicate fingers lifted it from the table, nails dazzling in the fading afternoon light like diamonds. “Fascinating,” she said softly, the card rolled over her pale hand and she held it up, “to embed so much knowledge into so small a sigil. It never ceases to amaze me what your people have accomplished, Magister.” Her smile was gentle and earnest. “I never thought to imagine it.”

 _You are lying, vhenan,_ Solas thought mildly. _You came across this magic through Veilfire runes in the middle of a bog._ He had little time to consider her change in appearance, her silver hair, her distorted eyes. Not when the slight sly smile of hers, beloved to him, tugged at the side of her mouth and the memory marched forward. _Were you truly here, I might rush to you. Demand to know what has happened, so you might tell me why you have done this to yourself._

She stood out here, more than the others. As if the spirits had carefully carved her into these memories, even more real now than she had been when she approached him in the Fade at Skyhold. _And this is only a memory of her, where she was and what she has done._ He could hardly imagine how bright she must be now.

“We are not bound as our brothers and sisters in the South,” Magister Claudius replied. “It is unsurprising one recently unbound from a southern Circle would seek sanctuary here with us.”

“I am merely offering my services.”

Solas watched as Claudius smiled graciously, a polite smile filled with questions. Yet that of a man only vaguely interested, and vastly disinterested in the world at large. Claudius lifted a silver goblet to his lips, took a sip of wine, then popped a date into his mouth. He watched Eirwen with dark brown eyes. “Yes, you have said as much before,” he said. “Few come to me for what I have to offer, dear Lady. So, I have wondered often what I might possess which will aid a beautiful young elf such as yourself?”

“It is not a question of what I wish for, Magister.” Her soft voice lilted, carried through the study. “The question is what I might do for you?”

“Me?” Claudius laughed. “I fear, my dear, I’ve no power nor influence to be of use to an ambitious lady like yourself.” He stretched out on his couch, one long finger playing pensively with the documents on the side table. “You see those of the Magisterium currently find me to be quite the joke.” His eyes lifted, then they ran over her again. This time appraisingly. Openly admiring gaze wandered down the bust of her dress, the long v nearly to her belly exposing supple, snow white skin. “Were I three decades younger, the story might have been quite different.”

Solas stiffened. _Claudius has many elf blooded children._ He remembered that detail. Eirwen’s pleasant smile in return sent shivers down his spine. _Have you been tricked? Captured? Or are you here of your own volition? Surely not, else you would fight._ He swallowed. _Are you trapped by a spell? Or has what you been through made you this?_ His heart froze. _If what you were was gifted to Command as she became your reflection, then have you forgotten who you are?_ Was this even Eirwen at all? His hand clenched against his back.

“Now, however,” the Magister continued, “time has tempered ambition. Age as they say, and breeding, will tell.”

Eirwen took another sip. Red lips touched the rim of her cup lightly, thick black lashes fluttered demurely. Yet through them, he could see cold eyes considering. “So,” she said. “The grand old bear will show his belly when the wolves come to his door.”

“Ah!” The Magister laughed. “A southern analogy, how lovely. We have many more apt comparisons here in Tevinter. Yet, as you asked, I shall answer. A bear given no teeth nor claws has but his fat to defend himself and winter has already gone.”

“So, you shall sacrifice your surrounding province to the Qunari on the hope they will be satisfied? On the dream that they shall move on to more appealing targets?” Her lips pursed. Casually, she set both cup and plate down on the small, round table beside her. “Norba, perhaps?”

Claudius lunged forward, slamming his fist down on the couch’s velvet arm. “Even if I must bow to my lips being sewn shut and bound in foul Qunari magics, I shall see what is rightfully mine restored! Returned from her foul grip!”

"No need for dramatics,” Eirwen said. Her fingertip stirred round the porcelain lip. “What if I told you all this trouble could be ended with minimal fuss on your part,” she lifted her brows politely, “would it intrigue you?”

Claudius straightened. Pudgy cheeks blowing outward as they filled with air, then he sighed. “You are offering an end to the Qunari invasion and to pry my family’s ancestral city from Cornelia’s grasping fingers.” Dark eyes glittered with new interest. “No, Lady, do not tempt me.”

Eirwen said nothing, a delicate wrist lifted lightly. Her finger continued to turn. A sly smile tugged at her mouth as she relaxed into the high backed chair.

“Yet,” Claudius murmured. “I sense you are not the sort to make such an offer in jest. Nor do so without the strength to make good. Or, at least, believe it possible.” His fingers played with the quill beside his hand. “What is it you might wish in return?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself over. What your family lacks in martial strength, they make up for with connections to the most institutions and scholars in Tevinter. I would like access to their research.”

“Ah yes, my father. Tevinter’s great patron of _inventive_ magical pursuits!” Claudius laughed. “Spent the family fortune, near bankrupted our house, and almost cost us our seat in the Magisterium! All for a few elven trinkets, a single, unworkable eluvian, Ancient Tevene baubles, and a great library’s worth of documentation!” He tapped the arm. “I hope you are not similarly foolish, Lady. Not given to fantastic pursuits or flights of fancy, are we? It is best to remain grounded, you know.”

“Knowledge is a reward all its own, Magister.”

“Perfectly respectable and quite noncommittal, Lady.” Claudius clapped his hands together. “A dangerous proposition, entrusting what will be my legacy into the hands of a personage so shady.” He chuckled. “Ah, well, it is not as if I have options. Take back my lands, remove the Qunari invasion force, and do what you will with the knowledge and connections at my disposal. May the confused and maddened jumble of theoretical application, wildly misplaced philosophy, and misinformation aid you.”

“You will not be disappointed, I assure you.”

“Never fear, Lady. I am quite used to it.” Claudius rested on the couch, one leg hooking over the other beneath his robes. “Nothing in my life has ever gone as planned. However, even if you should fail, keeping a young and lovely elven mage such as yourself about to look upon will be satisfactory enough for me.”

Eirwen’s lashes fluttered, lips curved in a coquettish smile. “You flatter me, Magister.”

Solas’ hands rose to his back, and pressed tightly against his spine. _She is not for you._ The thought lingered untouched, though he regretted it almost immediately. His mouth soured and his gaze returned to Eirwen. Irritable possessiveness was unworthy of him. _She plays to the crowd, manipulating fools such as this to achieve her ends._ He did much the same, act the servant to win the crown. Let others be consumed by their assumptions. _I should be proud of how much she has grown, the skills she mastered in so short a time._ Instead, he felt small and cold, and strangely lonely. A knot settled in his stomach, twisting up his gut.

With a wave of his hand, he paused the memory.

She was far different from what he remembered. Looking at her, the emptiness he felt when dealing with his own people itched at him. He should belong with them, at least in spirit. Yet, often, it did not feel that way. _Tan is correct, I have gone soft._ The fact that he considered reaching through the Fade to end Claudius’ pathetic existence should he discover the Magister even _dreaming_ of laying a finger on her acceptable troubled him. The simple act of a Somniari could have damaging effects to his plans. One foul Magister’s death was no great loss, but what it alerted others to? That he could ill afford. Here he was, considering such a compromise to his plans. Solas sighed. If he did not belong with those he’d sworn to save, then where did he belong?

 _Isn’t it obvious, Solas?_ The Eirwen of his memory murmured, her arms slipped over his to wrap about his chest. The Anchor’s soft burn lingering above his heart, faint and warm. Small body pressed to his back. Her lips brushed along the inside of his ear. _You belong with me._

He stretched out a hand, fingertips tracing down the Lady’s cheek. The image did not move, did not flinch, nor did it twitch. _Simply a memory, a doll. Like the woman she represents, a fantasy brought to life._ He tucked a few tendrils of silver hair back behind one ear, studying glassy blue eyes. _Yet, even here, she is so beautiful._ Perhaps not for the way this transition had bleached her skin and hair, transformed a soft and welcoming appearance hard and otherworldly. He could feel her strength, excess mana clinging to her memory. Tiny motes drifting off her form, surrounding her in starlight.

She’d always been sharp in the Fade after her exposure to the Anchor. Now, the echo of her presence screamed like a gaping wound cracked wide.

“What have you done to yourself, vhenan?”

The question went unanswered, a memory could say nothing.

He sighed. “Whatever this is about I might’ve…” he trailed off, there was little point in arguing with himself. _Aided her?_ Even if she called out for him, would he have come? _I promised myself I would not. I made my choice long before we met, I cannot be dissuaded now._ His thumb brushed up a cold cheek. Those empty eyes, like winter ice upon a river hiding flowing water beneath them. Pure, undiluted mana. Drawn directly from the… _No._

His other hand lifted and he tilted up the memory’s chin.

 _No, no, no, no._ It was impossible, utterly implausible. _Ridiculous, she cannot be._ Like all elves of her time, Eirwen was mortal. Her life expectancy a century at most. Time measured for her in brief spans, she could not sit and spend a decade contemplating a rose’s perfect beauty. Could not sit with a spirit in a glade, forgetting the years passage. Disconnected from herself, separated by the Veil, born into this world a shadow. Lacking the critical components which would have extended her life forever. She lived quickly, advanced rapidly. Never tired, never rested. _Hers is a world where time is never enough._

A spirit or demon joined with a mage only lent itself to devastation, corruption. They could not overcome the Veil. They were simply broken.

_The winter gale is uncompromising. Changing the world requires will, the ability to say what will be and the strength to make it so. She could be nothing less than what she was. When there was a choice to be made, she made none. She commanded what was to bend to her instead._

That is what Command said.

_The future._

According to Command, Eirwen was the future. A future which could not be his. He remembered when he wanted her to be, even knowing it was impossible. Thumb curving the corner of her mouth, Solas ran it down over the small crescent scar above her chin, then he let his hand fall away.

_I cannot turn back now._

“It is merely a question of providing a worthy man with his just due.”

Eirwen’s voice. What she had said to Claudius.

“Yes,” he replied softly, “I suppose it is.”

The memory smiled at him, a canny smile. Unnerving.

“This change you have undergone,” he stepped back from the doll, “if you are a danger to me now, vhenan, then I must seek you out.” He said it more for himself than for her. She would neither hear him nor remember. “I doubt it will be a pleasant meeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas, you're a jackhole. That's my beginning and ending feelings on this.


	10. Chapter 10

Dirthamen stood in the Samhal Valley, following Renan Dirthim’s memories. These were ones she had not intended to give him, yet they had bubbled to the surface of her mind just the same. She’d been clever in her attempts at hiding them, but a month or two of training could not match an elvhen lifetime spent honing the art. Still, he possessed only fragments rather than a complete tapestry and by itself alone such a victory was worth celebrating. The winding web wove its way through the great lengths of twisted woods and green fields, all the way to the surrounding white capped mountains. He saw the great lake in the middle, in the Lands of the East where June once kept his forges. There were no great white towers here, however. No white walls to cut the valley into diamonds to be filled with sapphire lyrium pools. Only stone frozen, fractured, and decayed by age. A great tree stood in its stead, where June’s sparkling, crystalline arches and mile high bellows once held firm. It was nearly as tall, filled with green leaves, bright with star shaped white flowers. Branches five miles wide and a mile thick. Tiny lights of fires, thousands of them glittering like stars at the valley’s center. The beginnings of a city, he knew from his memories. Protected by a winding maze of ancient trees, blackened trunks great and twisting.

In the distance, he could see great golden eagles circling white peaks above the far mountainside. Animals moved through the valley, not wild but driven by herdsmen on the backs of large, lumbering, four legged beasts. In a sharpened vision, he could see the whips cracking in hand, the rising red light of elgara against the far off peaks, gray dawn mists clouding the plains below. The four winding rivers flowing into a central reservoir in the valley’s center where the great tree stood. Long shadows cast across the forest and its leaves in green, blue, and red interspersed around small patches of farmland.

It was vast, this valley. Hidden by massive flats of icy tundra and walled away by several mountain ranges. It could be neither entered nor exited, except with magical aid. Impenetrable by most in this time according to Renan Dirthim’s memories and, he suspected, many from his own. To find it, one would have to know what they were looking for and wish to come. They could not have grown sloppy like so many of his brethren with a reliance on convenient eluvians. Those who had, they did so with the Girl’s aid. They were shadows, flitting and flickering. Only a partial piece as many of their spirits were missing. The others, his own kin, had their connection to their birthright irreparably damaged.

He currently had no interest in either.

Renan Dirthim, however, her location mattered.

Holding out a hand, Dirthamen twisted. The location burst free, manipulated into being, and he came to them as he knew where she would be. It flashed on the far mountainside, a glittering diamond of raw mystical energy. Twirling up toward the heavens like a beacon, invisible except when sought. _When it is wanted, it reveals its secrets._ His mouth curved into a smile. A child slept there, young and powerful. Entrapped in an awakening which would see the whole world burn. Come too early, it was caught between flesh and spirit. Torn apart by the grasping hands of earth and sky, claimed by two violent parents. Enraged in its pain. Abandoned by those who claimed to love it, left in a dark and dreaming sleep alone to die. Twisted and manipulated in desperation by one who sought to regain its own, as fumbling attempts at an unfinished ritual unleashed only more suffering. More pain.

_Elgar’nan would have killed Renan Dirthim, the moment she crossed his path._

The Great Father had no stomach for power which would grow beyond his control, no patience for its disruptions. A babe, barely more than a newborn, wielding a mystical strength one day to be equivalent with Falon’din’s and neither wisdom nor experience to control it could not be allowed to survive. It could not be nurtured. Nor raised. Only force fed until it imploded, crushed by its own vast weight.

Dirthamen understood.

One did not lash a storm to their will, control and domination served little purpose. It’s winds merely gusted harder, grew colder, widened its path of devastation. One rode it instead, to see where it would take them.

Once, he might have agreed with the Great Father’s assessment and what would’ve been Falon’din’s sensible recommendation. He might have put her to death in the night, while she lay sleeping in her bed. In another time, in another place, when Arlathan still hung present in the sky above, and spirits freely roamed over the lands. As natural to the lands as the rocks, trees, and rivers. When their empire stretched across Thedas and quicklings still scrabbled in huts of made from dried animal skins, working their tools forged from bone. When the People lived in castles built of silver crystal and starlight, not crude sleds drawn by halla across bumpy ground.

This world was not that one. It’s towers were built from stone, it’s castles crude, thick, and horribly square. Where they once soared through the sky and walked in the space between worlds, they walked on the hard ground. Now, his options here diminished as those who cried out his name in worship. Cried out in hopes that he might rescue them from their forests, from their ignorance. They called to him, little more than those same sour smelling humans in their leather huts, living in the dirt with the pigs, and he fought the urge to retch.

Dirthamen sighed, irritated fingers batted away a few loose strands of black hair. _There is little to be done about it now._ Had he been a slightly more desperate fool, he might have counted on whatever plan Fen’Harel conspired to. _Fen’Harel, quick to act as the quicklings he spurns. We ought to have named him Shem’Harel, letting fear and desperation lead him to hasty action and hastier deceits._ He chuckled. _The dreaded dog yapping at dangers only he in his wisdom could foresee._

The Girl worried over those plans, over that “hidden” wisdom. The promise of an elven prince, a mighty general, Mythal’s great protector, the “rebel” leader. The one she knew only as a humble wanderer, who claimed to love her in one breath and condemned everything she built on the second. A lover whose blunders had already cost her more than he might ever repay. The trickster who undid the locks on her door, as she fell prey to the monster of legends she never truly believed in. Still, she bet her twenty five years against fifty thousand, terrified that not all the knowledge in all the world could match the difference. Lost, lonely, embittered from attempting to carry a burden proven too great for ten millennia old betters. And, quite to his surprise, a momentary brush with her mind had inspired the oddest of emotions: pity.

Now, as he studied the valley, Dirthamen found his pity growing into one even harder won. Staring down at a wellspring of green in the middle of mountainous icy wasteland, a feeling he thought long dead was beginning to re-emerge. _Admiration._ Killed off by countless millennia of war, blood soaked murder, torture, terror, and transformed to the inevitable boredom born from desensitization. When one stripped away the glitz, the marvelous inventions, limitless lifespan, and vast belief in their own superior arcane knowledge, there was little about his own people worth admiring.

Survive a hundred wars or a single endless one and every understanding shifted, he knew what it was to be submerged in the lowest aspects of dreck and filth elven kind had to offer. To stand in their shadows, listen to the banal chattering from their minds. From the highest to the lowest, from floating crystalline castles twining toward the heavens to the ones who scrabbled in the dirt for scraps among the pigs, he knew them. Their hopes, their dreams, their dark desires, what they wanted more than anything in the world, what they would do to make their secret dreams a reality. All they kept buried deep within their hearts, clenched tight. He studied them until they blended together into archetypes, patterns easily distinguished and dismissively similar in detail. People, he had discovered, were not individuals but repetitions. One in every thousand might bear a spark of difference from the milling, unwashed masses surrounding them.

He woke to this world, Fen’Harel’s mess, never expecting to find anything, well, new.

Yet, here it was, held out plain in daylight for all the world to see.

A secret soon to be no secret at all.

“Interested?” Dirthamen murmured. “Yes, I do believe I may be.”

What a strange feeling to be brushed against a single question, which he had asked but lingered in first in her mind. A question for him, but not for him. A question for her, but without an answer. A question for the world he understood so far only through her eyes. The question that echoed throughout the valley to the rocks and trees, to the great eagles, gryphons, and the wolves. One to all those who fell under the thrall of her magic. _Is this who you wish to be?_

His lips tucked into a smile, his hands resting loosely at his hips. His eyes turned to where her sleeping mind dreamt on the opposite side of the valley. Here, standing above it cloaked in darkness and surveying the whole of what she had begun, it was all he could do not to laugh. For, in truth, he hadn’t the faintest clue toward an answer. _In this world, who can tell?_

 

***

 

Eirwen stood in the central pit of Norba’s great slave market, what had once been some sort of coliseum. A near perfect representation of it, anyway. The sun warmed sand hot between her toes, much like the cold had once bit her cheeks at Haven. As real in dream as it was in the waking world. She brushed the grains from her fingers, scattering them back as her eyes turned to tall alabaster walls protecting the inner ring and marble seating. It went up by nearly thirty rows or forty rows before reaching separat box seats beneath linen canopies protecting them from the sun. She’d counted each row on past visits, walked its stairs and corridors. Examined the vast holding cells beneath her feet, where they kept the whips, the chains, the baths, and the slaves. Where the gladiators sparred during the off-season.

The arena was converted by Magister Cornelia once a season as a holding area for Norba’s massive slave auction. Slave auction was too mundane a term for it. Extravaganza? Her lips twitched and, sardonically, wiped the grains from her hands. _Better._

Here in this arena on the morrow would be the culmination of a six week celebration opening another seven of Norba’s finest trading days, the opening of the Grand Auction. The largest not just in the province Cornelia controlled, but in the entire region. Many of Cornelia’s entourage and Magister allies were lured in by the promise of “fine goods”. Dorian had even admitted to her once, with a certain sort of pride, that the raiders and slavers out of Norba provided tertiary goods that were almost comparable to those found in Minrathous. Streamers thrown from the rooftops, the lowly lataens providing fireworks displays. Merchants from Masters betting their finest in wrestling matches and other warrior competitions to earn them prestige, and a higher price on their eventual resale. As with everything in Tevinter, this celebration wasn’t really about the slaves. It was about power, Cornelia’s specifically.

Below her feet hundreds of fresh captives, the finest packed in and saved by greedy slavers over the previous months, waited in terror. The season’s first and finest combed from Alienages, docks, and Clans across Thedas. The kidnapped poor, beautiful elves of every age, the noble’s servants, doctors, scholars, and archeologists. Fereldan soldiers, Orlesian chevaliers, and proud Dalish hunters ready to be broken in at the hands of a willing “master”. Even a few runaway Circle mages or captured apostates for those happy to bend a few laws in pursuit of power. In addition to it all, she suspected more than one noble scion and beloved bastard was secreted away. Captured in some daring midnight raid while traveling abroad or paid to be taken by a jealous sibling or greedy family member.

_Few pleasures greater in life than forcing  an enemy to bend knee._

Now, they saw their bodies stripped bare and washed down, sigils applied to their foreheads to mark their value. Each forced to bend head as their hair was styled, their nails cleaned, faces painted, each and every crevice purged of filth. Then, they’d have a placard fitted over their chests marking their sex, age, and their skills. _Ready to put on a show,_ she thought, more than a little bitterly. _To be pawed over, same as the horses and cows brought to market in Denerim. Their assets weighed, their intelligence assessed, their privates handled, their teeth checked. Limbs, muscles, joints all to be felt same as one might check heads, hocks, and withers._

Her upper lip curled. She’d seen it enough times in the few markets she’d walked through, and once was more than enough. Turning her head to the side, Eirwen spat.

In the center, a great wooden platform had been erected around large square pens meant to segregate the new captives. Those brought out to auction would be trotted around the outer part of the arena, their image displayed in a grand illusion to the hundreds of buyers in the stands. Those the slavers deemed finest would be placed on rotating pillars, the strong and likely to fight trapped in paralysis glyphs. Weakened just enough so they might still fight as their bodies were forced to pose. _Their fierceness and skill admirable qualities for bodyguards, magekillers, and gladitoria. To show their buyers that they will be a worthwhile challenge to break and to remind them of the Empire’s might, so they despair._

Slowly, her eyes lifted to the greenish orb overhead, the Fade’s version of a sun. Then, down to the array of carefully crafted marble boxes at the very height of the coliseum. The special seating, she noted, where the wealthy paid extra to go. _Where Cornelia’s entourage and allies will be, including Magisters Denalus and Lexara. Those seventeen merchants of the West End she wishes to impress, so she might open negotiations for a bigger share of the Minrathous market._

Nails bit into her palms and she smiled faintly.

It would all come to it soon.

In this moment, members of the Norba Resistance moved through the underground. Preparing as she did for the day’s events. Ready to strike a blow at the very heart of slavery in the Empire. Arms uncrossing, Eirwen started across the arena. In the Fade, she was limited to a look around. All was recorded here. All mages could walk here, could visit this place in dream. Many minds turned toward this moment, and one slip could negate the impact of the entire plan. _I’m not foolish enough to think I can do as I please._ There were Somniari other than Solas _. Solas… there’s no telling what he might do._ He couldn’t be counted on to stand aside, pursuing his own goals forever. _And a Tevinter in chaos, whatever the reason, is not necessarily helpful._ Chaos cut off routes of access, chaos meant more suspicion, important artifacts becoming lost, and falling into the wrong hands. An ordered world was easier to move in, easier to destroy. _He’s already shown himself willing to protect the status quo if it furthers his ends._ Whatever else he said about wanting to protect freedom, the South under the tyrannical thumb of the Qunari meant the loss of more magic, more preserved elven artifacts, making it ever more difficult for his agents to secure what he needed.

She nudged the sand with a toe.

Figments, shades in shadow lifted off it. A lash snapped across her cheek, the sun harsh on the sand. Voices yelling in Tevene, an elven woman defiantly screaming back. Eirwen felt the ropes twist and itch around her wrists, skin burning, staring down at weathered brown hands. Her head wrenched back, staring up into cold green eyes and a round, human face.

_“Ar tu na’din, shemlen.”_

Laughter.

 _“Bind this one tight!”_ The voices echoed around her. _“Magister Zarvos’ll have good use for her!”_

Somewhere in the distance, other voices crying out, _“Nae! Nae! Nae!”_

Eirwen closed her eyes, ghost fingers stroked her right wrist. “Is it less of an indignity when we do it to ourselves?”

The cold marble of the coliseum offered her no answer as the spirits in the arena played out a thousand different memories. Pain and misery drew them to this place, crowded them in as thickly as those held underneath the arena itself.

“You ought to be more careful,” she said to them. “They keep a special section here just for you.”

The spirits continued on, heedless. Some orange figures dragging others kicking in green fire across the sand. Prodding, poking, forcing them to dance. Ghostly hands dragged over non-existent body parts. Spirits chattered at each other, holding up fingers while demanding certain prices. The memory of one attempted escapee fled out in front of her, chased from behind by other spirits with spears. All odd, sad memories of what had been.

 _Like children playing in the market._ Her lips twitched. Hands settled on her knees and she exhaled slowly, even in the Fade her muscles twinged. _My body is on fire._ Pain lanced through her fingers, nerves crackling, and her chilled skin warmed. “Well,” she said hoarsely, “far be it from me to interrupt your fun.”

“Is that what such a scene has become for you, vhenan?” The tight, barely controlled, righteous indignation in such a familiar voice surprised her by being unsurprising. _“Fun?”_

Her eyes closed. _Ah, at last._ Then, she opened them, cast her eyes toward the heavens in a silent prayer for patience, and turned. “Solas.” Her mouth pulled tight, but she forced it to smile. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “What brings you?”

“You, of course.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What other reason could I have to visit a place so disheartening?”

 _Solas._ He was exactly as she remembered. Not the stiff backed elven general king in his gold and green regalia, girded in silver with wolf pelt thrown casually across one shoulder. Dressed in glittering finery her own people barely dared dream of. No, this time he was in a simple soft sweater and leather pants. The same he wore when they were both at Skyhold. _Before times changed._ She inhaled deeply, willing all lingering pain and exhaustion away. _I am untouched, unharmed, and carefree. I am the heartless mask._ “I don’t know.” She lifted one brow. “I don’t pretend to know how your mind, Solas. For all I know, it could be coincidence. Perhaps you wanted to relive the past.”

His upper lip lifted slightly, as if he’d smelled something foul. His head inclined, but he drew himself up straighter. “Ah, yes,” his eyes swung past her to survey the arena, his voice dry, tone sarcastic, “a time anyone would dream of returning to.”

“Some more so than others.”

His gaze returned sharply, mouth thinning. His hands pressed to his back and he drew himself up straighter, every inch the powerful, authoritative man he’d been when he turned the Viddasala to stone.

_Murdered her._

Eirwen hated how it made her heart quicken and not in fear. His poise, his authority, the promise of danger, and the way he looked at her without indecision, hesitance or regret; it excited her. All he had to do was reach out, grab her, and...

“I left you under the assumption your actions would be for the betterment of Thedas,” he said. “That you would live well, improving the lives of others.” His eyes moved about the scene again. “I did not expect to find you here, selling your services to Magisters.”

Her jaw tightened, stump on her left shoulder where a ghostly arm connected itched. _And, then, I remember it has nothing to do with wanting me._ “Yes, well, I suppose we all learn to live with disappointment.” Eirwen turned heel, striding away from him across the hot sands. Even as she did, the Fade constricted around her. She felt reality bend, shift, and he appeared before her; watching with sad, gray-blue eyes. If she turned to go the other way, he’d repeat the process. “You will allow me to pass.” Her voice slipped softly through her lips, hard in its undercurrent. Her head tilted. “You can’t hold me, Solas.”

“Is that what you believe?” Solas took a step forward. “That I will trap you here? That I've come to punish you?” Brows contorting, he took a deep, slow breath. “Have you truly been so twisted by this, vhenan? Do you believe me capable of…” his hands clenched at his side, but she watched his gaze slide to her left arm. His lips pursed. Then, finally, he sighed.

“If it came to it,” Eirwen said. “There’s no point in denying what we both know to be true.”

A small smile curved the corners of his mouth.

“You can’t say you’ve never hurt me.”

Solas’ lips twisted, and his eyes fell by a single fraction. “No.” He sighed again. “I cannot.” Hands lifting, he tucked them behind his back and out of sight. He straightened. “No matter how I might wish otherwise, harm has been caused that was of my doing.”

“Wishes are meaningless.” She took a slow step forward. “All that matters is what happened.” She wouldn’t look away from him. “And what will. The past, the present, and the future are what define us.”

His blue-gray gaze swung back to her.

Eirwen tilted her head. “Besides,” she tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage anything other than a grimace, “why else would you be here except to lecture?”

“Concern, I suppose, and curiosity.”

She snorted. “Yes.” Her hand tightened at her side. “Concern. Why was that not my first thought? You’ve shown so much in the past when it comes to my well-being.” Brows lifting, she let her left quirk. “After all, you’re always there when I need you.”

“I came to see what you had become,” Solas said. “I cannot say I am impressed. In it all, you seem to have made yourself a monster.”

“So,” she replied. “The pot labels the kettle a pot and refuses to call himself black.”

“I see your grasp of human metaphor has improved.”

“And I see we still have time to trade barbs.” Her gaze narrowed, lashes thinning to slits around her eyes. “However, I disagree, my well-being isn’t why you’re here.”

“No?” He tilted his head.

“If it were,” she said softly, her left hand twitched, “you’d have come a long before now.”

“Then, perhaps, you ought to instruct me on my own reasoning?” He leaned forward with a tight smile. “So, I might understand myself better.”

“You came to tell me my course is dangerous.” Her mouth yanked sideways, she let her eyes run over him. Watchful for the slightest twitch in his lips, a slip of his gaze, the furrow in his brow, where his cheek pulled, any sign to what went on behind his eyes. “If I do not correct, the path will kill me. As the Veil will fall and the world will die, you want me to know my way leads only to more suffering. That the people of Thedas deserve peace before their inevitable end.” Lips spread to a playfully callous grin. “I am, after all, no better than the Qunari. I am betraying my ideals, betraying my friends, hurting them in this mad quest, and hurting myself. You would prefer if I politely stopped before I came to regret or brought the world to chaos.” Her chin lifted. “At the end, you still believe this is about you.” She paused. “Perhaps, I am only doing this in a mad self-destructive bid to steal your attention.”

Solas flinched.

“You would never hurt me,” she continued coldly, “except to save my life. You would never kill me, except from necessity. You love me, yet stand by me only when it is convenient. You regret our lives have taken this course, but some events cannot be helped.”

“You expect me to simply stand aside as you transform yourself into…” he trailed off.

“Say it,” she spat. “Use their word, if you can stomach it. Say it loudly so the skies and stars might hear you, vhenan. Record it into your precious Fade’s memory.”

For a moment, Solas stared at her, almost helplessly. His shoulders sank, he slumped a little, and he was once more her weary apostate. Only for a moment, his mouth pulled tightly. Arm pressing against his back, then he drew himself up straight. He met her gaze clearly, authoritatively. Just a cold, searing anger seething beneath the surface of stormy gray eyes.

Exhaling harshly, her upper lip curled into a sneer. “Abomination.”

“Yes,” Solas said softly, far too softly. “You would be that.”

 _There it is,_ Eirwen thought, her right hand itching at her side. Her left hung cold and still. _There is Fen’Harel._ She wanted him to look at her with those eyes. A chilling yet sad gaze, filled with regret and renewed purpose. _Not intent on my destruction, oh no. I am a bug to be crushed when the time is right._ A vague flitting shadow, indistinct and unnecessary. Best forgotten. Not even worthy of the death he gave the Viddasala.

“How many must die before you are satisfied, vhenan?”

“I was wondering when you would ask.” Her hand lifted. “I wanted a similar answer from you.” Tracing her lower lip with her thumb, she grinned. “The answer is also the same.” _Lie, lie,_ she thought. _He always wanted to see us as reflections, use me to understand himself. See the horror of me as you, Solas._ “As many as necessary.”

“You must have known this meeting was coming,” Solas said. “Your actions serve only to further inflame the conflict between Tevinter and the Qunari. Hundreds have died at your hands already.”

“More like thousands, if we count my time with the Inquisition. Hundreds of thousands, if we add those I whose lives I was responsible for and failed to protect.” Eirwen snorted. “However, it is kind of you to worry over their safety when you also plan to end their lives.”

“With far less suffering,” Solas replied. “I have no intention of letting them linger, or making them prey to angry masters seeking retribution. I have no intention of escalating a war which will only bring more bloodshed.”

“Such a tall hart you ride,” Eirwen said. “It must be nice, possessing so great a view. You are so far above the rest of us, poor mortals that we are.”

“Do not mock me, I take no pleasure in what must be done.”

“Ir abelas,” she said, her words twisted wryly on her tongue. “I had forgotten. You alone know war, you alone know the pain of suffering, and you alone have the wisdom to steer us on our proper course.” Eirwen spread her hands. “My whole life has been one long war, Solas; one great battle for survival.” She laughed. “Decade after decade, century upon century, my people were shaped by it. Informed by it. We called it Fen’Harel’s Gift, the Trickster laughing at us and our struggles. Bringing us misfortunate wherever we went.”

He flinched.

Her gaze hardened. “I know a different kind of pain. We endure and, before the end, we will rise.”

His eyes narrowed. “How many?”

“Until the streets of every city from here to the Anderfels run red,” she replied smoothly. “Those who would beat down the forgotten, the impoverished, and enslave others will be made to feel our wrath.” It was a lie, a good lie. One she’d practiced a hundred times. He wanted a monster. Needed one, perhaps. _I would rather he see me as a lost cause._ It made everything easier. _I was only half a person to begin with._ She could be the nightmare he created. So the vision he’d claimed to love could be cherished, lost to foolish error. _As the woman he did never existed to begin with._ “As they fall upon each other, we will finally have our opportunity for vengeance.”

She saw a flash of horror, then momentary recognition and a spark of emotion almost like respect. “You are not so cold, vhenan.”

“No?” Eirwen tilted her head. “You are living in denial, Solas. You never knew me.”

“It is possible,” Solas said. “It may be I saw only what I wished.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Now is your chance to wake and see us both for what we are.”

“As to myself? A blind fool, I suppose. Easily duped by a pretty face and an inquisitive mind.” His jaw tightened, his tone wry. “All I saw from you must have been a lie, correct?” His brows rose. His eyes flicked left. “The way you cried in your sleep from the pain in your hand. The way you recalled the names of each healer, headsman, and herbalist in every village we visited. Checked their stores and collected extra herbs when time allowed to be passed back into their hands. Aided villagers in their cries, dedicated troops to ensuring they did not go hungry, to building or restoring local militias.”

“Solas--”

“No,” he said harshly, cutting her off. “It must have been a dream. You never sat by dying soldiers bedsides, holding their hands in their final hours. Nor smashed in both your forefinger and thumb when trying to help refugees erect structures for the winter. Tired as you were, you always lent your magic to repair roofs and walls in Sahrnia, often when you yourself could barely stand. And it was you, not Leliana, not Cullen, not Josephine, who hit upon the idea of drafting former rebel mages with healing talents into squads patrolling Inquisition controlled regions. So the gifted might better be able to reach and aid those with wounds too great for the mundane healers to handle, and the locals would have someone to reach out to.” He frowned. “She encouraged trade between different factions, incorporated elves, dwarves, humans, and even Tal’Vashoth into her armies. No one, no matter their station and, perhaps, even their history was to be turned away. She believed in new beginnings, in second chances, in helping those who fell back to their feet. A beacon of hope for those beaten down by the world.” He smiled. “The one I loved clung on so strongly to hope that she believed even a wretch such as I could be saved.”

Then, Solas laughed. “Perhaps even the Evanuris, if given the chance. She would sacrifice much, everything to see her world achieved. Any fool willing to work toward her goal, toward a world where no child starved in the streets was to be welcomed if not watched. Her revolution would be no mindless slaughter, nor bloody uprising.” His eyes held her, his voice softened. “She believed in others. Challenged them to turn their gaze skyward. To live.”

Swallowing thickly, Eirwen glanced away. “She was a fool and her world a fantasy.”

“A fantasy I longed to join,” Solas said. “Though I could not.”

Eirwen paused, felt her lips tremble. Tears shivered on her lashes. _How can he speak of me that way, then do such awful…_ “So,” she said slowly, fighting to keep her voice level, “I am still just on a pedestal, high above the rest.”

“Ah, but I do not love _you_ , do I?” His upper lip curled. “No, you have made that abundantly clear. You are but a pale imitation, the last shell remaining of what I once loved.”

“Loved?” Eirwen’s voice scratched free. “ _Loved?_ You wish to talk to me of love? Fenhedis! The one I thought I loved would not have abandoned me in a blasted wyvern’s den! Would not have told me I was beautiful in a private moment when he…” Her face itched. She remembered her vallaslin, her dedication, fifteen years worth of work and training. Proudly ready to serve her clan. “Then left without so much as an excuse other than ‘ _I can’t’_.” The stump of her left arm burned. “He might have warned me about the Anchor’s side effects, come for it before such drastic removal was necessary!”

Solas took a step forward.

She heard her voice crack. “He’d never have left me to suffer through an endless hoard of Qunari on a last hurrah before my untimely demise!” Tears froze, frosted her lashes. “Would never leave me to die alone on those long nights, terrified as my hand attempted wrend itself apart. Wouldn’t have left slept with me then left me alone, broken and missing my dominant hand, in ancient ruins to find my own way home. Would never have…” Her teeth grit. “The man I loved had courage and conviction, cared for more people than just his. He was a little lost and a little broken, but so was I. A bit of an ass at times, yes, like I am. We were a comfort to each other.”

Water crystallized on her cheek. “More than a lover, more than a friend, he was family. My family.” Her lips pursed wryly. “Though it is well deserved, I’ve never been able to truly hate family.”

“Eirwen…”

“Don’t,” she snarled. “When you walked out of my life, you lost the privilege of my secrets. My mind and my heart are mine, Solas. Anything else is a gift given to those I trust. If you honor personal freedoms as you claim then respect my wishes. You will leave.” Her eyes narrowed. “ _Now._ ”

Solas stared at her for a long moment, “I see.” His eyes were cold, chilling. His tone icy. “Then, I will do so. You are no one I know, nor wish to. My heart would not brutalize a world.”

“If ever she existed, it was only in your mind.” Eirwen held his gaze, her voice firm. “Content yourself with dreams and fractured memories, Dread Wolf. Leave me to mine.”

A hard, sharp thrust took her in the chest. Ready when it pierced through her heart, she tumbled through the cold snow and down toward a rude awakening. There was nothing gentle in his thrust. Sharp and angry, it seared through her. Burning behind her eyes, shredding at her vocal chords as a scream struggled to escape. On the left, a boiled stump stung and cried out. Then, she was falling. Falling toward an aching, bone-weary body. _For the best,_ the words whispered tiredly through her mind. _It’s for the best._ The urge to weep knotted her gut, thickened her throat as she slid into herself. Her mouth ached, stung. Tongue large against slimy teeth. She felt sick, trembling in warm waters. Unable to move.

Hands, gentle hands, slipped beneath her body and lifted her up. Comfortingly impartial arms held her, cradled her against a warm chest. _No!_ Distantly, Eirwen tried to thrash. _No!_

It couldn’t be Solas. She couldn’t have failed, could she? He hadn’t found her already? All the pain, misery, and anguish of the past months couldn’t be for nothing. It couldn’t be!

Her muscles failed to respond. Her eyes refused to open.

_Still… too… tired._

Her head rocked forward and she drifted--not into the endless open expanse of the Fade, but into a black, dreamless sleep where there was no prison to hold her. No nightmares. No Solas to greet her with cold unfeeling eyes. No Fen’Harel to stalk the edges, snapping at her heels. Just emptiness.

 _Maybe,_ her mind whispered, _maybe this is what death feels like._

And if that were so, Eirwen thought gratefully, perhaps this was her chance to finally find a way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot say that Solas didn't have it coming. You aaaaaaasssssssssshat, this is a bad time. A bad time to be you, I say. However, this frees us up to get into it! Let's hit the hightown, go raid Tevinter, and see how high Dirthamen can fly.
> 
> Solas make some good choices. Maybe? Probably not.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it.


	11. Chapter 11

When Solas woke in Fen’Harel vir Revasan, it was in a fury. Fire caught the sketches on his desk, flaring in bright red across his papers. He lunged from his chair, gripping the edged lip, and upended it with both hands. The desk banged against the floor, loudly, sides heaving as the wood panels shuddered. Cracked. Fire licked up its sides, great guttering gasps bursting between thickened gouts of black smoke.

He stood there, surrounded by papers crackling into embers, and watched it burn.  

The desk he had procured only because of _her_ . Because he insisted on pretending. He watched fine brass knobs melt, intricate carvings blacken and fall away to ash. Then, he wheeled on the offending chair. Made of wood and velvet, it burned just as easily. Uncomfortable nights spent in penance. Gone. Stiff back, knotted neck, his own suffering on her behalf. _Never again._

He swept the ashes away with a hand, so only a circle of blackened marks on the floor surrounding him remained. His hands balled to fists. Eyes narrowed. Squeezed shut. Then, Solas sank into a crouch with a sigh. He glanced down at the smooth stone beneath him, finding one piece of yellowed paper with suspiciously exact burns. Fingers curling around his last sketch, he studied Eirwen’s smiling eyes with head rested on her forearm. A near perfect likeness.

 _She only existed in your mind,_ her voice whispered, cold as winter’s wind. _Once again, Dread Wolf, you fall for a monster._

His teeth ground together. Flames flickered on his fingertips, hovering over the drawing. Mouth tensed, lips trembling. Then, they died. His shoulders slumped, and he picked it up. _This should not hurt,_ he thought. _I could only expect it. Fool that I am._ His finger traced the cut of her jaw, curving her lips. _Vhenan, I…_ What could he say? True or not, she had every right to those words. Every right to that hurt. The pain, rage, and rejection he’d expected at Vir Ghilan had found him at last. It was expected. This hollowed emptiness she carved into his soul, he had lost her to her own foolishness. _Also expected._ He closed his eyes, knuckles pressing to his forehead. _Fool. Twice. Thrice. How many more times must it be?_ How many times must he choose agony over a pretty face with kind eyes? A little pleasant flirtation? _Wisdom beyond her years._ Too young. _Staring at me with such jaded innocence._ He ought to have known better. _Let her remain a pleasant dream._

_You can’t say you’ve never hurt me._

It hardly made a difference.

 _Concern. Why was that not my first thought? You’ve shown so much in the past when it comes to my well-being._ Such a wry, ironic gaze. A smile pulled tight beneath tired ice blue eyes. _After all, you’re always there when I need you._

Water splattered on the stone. Blurring the corner of a perfect mouth, mussed hair, blobbing out a pert nose.

Tears.

“Fenhedis lasa!”

 _I do not weep so easily._ His fingers clenched, crushing the ruined portrait. Paper bit into his palm, balling together with a bitter crunch. This would only harden his resolve, relieve him of his burden, of his guilt. Let him be content. Now, he left nothing behind. _Only memories best forgotten._ He could go on. _I must thank her._ She finally set him free.

_Loved? You wish to talk to me of love? Fenhedis! The one I thought I loved would not have abandoned me in a blasted wyvern’s den! Would not have told me I was beautiful in a private moment when he…_

Slowly, Solas opened his hand and took the crumpled scrap from his palm. He parted it again. Eyes pensively sweeping ruined charcoal lines, sweeping lashes transformed to zigging zs. The indented jaw, chin crunched into her mouth. A smile now more mocking than inviting.

Then, calmly, he twisted it up and smashed Eirwen’s face between his hands.

_I will not think of it._

Not the relieved way her lashes fluttered shut when his bolt took her in the chest. Not the way she crumpled, no hand rising to protect herself. Her left, the entirety of it, flickering into ice. As she tumbled limply, her whole body giving way. As she fractured. Cast out. Cast down. Painfully compliant.

She’d put up no fight, offered no resistance.

_As if she intended..._

“Damn her.” His mouth twisted. “Damn her!”

_My heart would not brutalize a world._

Solas sank back to the floor. Lay on his back amidst black burns and whatever else remained of his useless notes. His eyes locked on the ceiling’s tapered arches as he resisted the urge to drift back to sleep and let his dreams carry him to Tevinter, to that arena slave market where he’d found her. Found her with bleached skin flushed and creased tired lines about her eyes, raw pain in her voice, struggling under the weight of whatever ritual she had undergone. Her red hair turned to a silvery white, hanging limply about her cheeks. Meeting him with an exhausted gaze, left arm twitching and flickering whenever her concentration broke. _Distracted by the horror of whatever she has done to herself._ The wonder of it. A blazing light drawing all the spirits toward her, yanking them out from where they’d fled. _As usual, I am a fool._

_You are living in denial, Solas. You never knew me._

Hand flattening on stone, his mouth twitched wryly. _Strung up by my own emotions._ Twisted round, ‘till he danced to her tune. _See me play the fool._ Gaze swinging to the map on the far wall, he studied the marks Tan made for the Lady’s activity. _Clever, my heart._ Wound his, set fire to whatever tatters remained of their relationship, remove his distractions, and focus him on his goal of lowering the Veil. _Distract me with my mistakes, make herself too painful to look upon._ Leave her under the observation of those far less interested in divining her intentions and predicting her course. Those of his own followers more likely to overlook her. When they could find her. Content to let her sit back, so long as it did not obviously interfere with their agenda.

_Were I only a millennia out of my youth, it might’ve worked._

Had she more than two decades and a half to hone her craft…

He shuddered.

 _Channeling her rage, her pain, and anguish into that performance. Utilizing all that hurt in order to dissuade me, to keep me from looking._ He opened the slip of paper, studying the face within it. _She manipulated me. Played me as a marionette on a string, if only for a few moments._ Rubbing his fingers against his temple, he sighed. _My love..._

_Love? We protect those we love, we don’t hurt them. You may say you love me, but it isn’t enough._

Solas paused, then he sighed. It hadn’t been perfomance. Everything she said, it had been raw, rage filled, and real. Whatever else she’d intended with it, in antagonizing him, she’d utilized her own pain and frustration. _And she’s right, damn her._ His fingers clenched. Eirwen had a habit of being right far too often. What he offered her was far less than she deserved. He had hurt her, seen it in the pained tired lines around her eyes. The anguish, and the rage seething beneath a cool outer surface. _The one you loved never existed, you saw only what you wanted._

He’d answered her, barb for barb. Instead of offering kindness, instead of finding his compassion, he turned defensive. _I named her a monster._ Staring down at her picture, his stomach soured, flipped, and he sat hard on the cold stone. He’d lashed out, struck her from the Fade. Been ready to strike her from his life, from his dreams, from conscious thought, and leave this whole miserable nightmare behind. _Once again, I hurt her._

“Love isn’t when it’s convenient.”

Slowly, Solas glanced up. “Cole.”

The spirit boy knelt before him, watching him with large, yellow eyes. A large, bony hand rested on his knee. His lips were smooth, shadowed by the deep crevices of his face. White skin, slightly sallow, glinted slightly in the winter light. Hooded, heavy lidded irises smiled. “Solas.”

A wave of relief passed through Solas shoulders, then down his spine. ‘“It is good to see you.”

“You needed me,” Cole said. “You didn’t before.”

“So, that is why I failed to notice your presence.”

“Yes.”

Solas nodded. As a spirit, Cole could penetrate deeper into old wounds and unearth truths better left hidden. The necessary hurts he would cause, the trust he would betray. He had needed to keep him at something of a distance before, and control what he saw. What he shared. What Cole remembered. The long nights they spent in each other’s company had been a source of comfort, especially after Wisdom’s loss. Cole alone in Skyhold understood the Fade, and he had always felt more comfortable in the company of spirits. _Yet, I did not expect Cole’s loyalty to me to override the Inquisitor. She is in a position where the pain is far more obvious, her wounds cry out in need of healing. I suspect she requires Compassion’s aid, yet Cole is here instead._ “The Inquisitor,” he said at last, “Eirwen, why are you not with her?”

“She…” Cole paused, then stopped. His head tilted, eyes clouded. “She doesn’t.”

Those words were ice in his veins. If one truth became clear in their meeting in the Fade, it was that Eirwen did need Compassion. She needed him very badly. Solas leaned forward. “It seems with the loss of her hand and my...” _abandonment, betrayal, falsehoods,_ “leaving, she has suffered a great deal.”

“Eirwen, she, she is in a dark place.” Cole tilted his head, his gaze sharpened. “There is darkness about her, it clouds my ability to see and sense. I can’t feel her.” Then, his eyes widened. “I… I don’t know where she is.”

“And you never thought to seek her out?”

Cole’s yellow gaze, wide and flat, returned to him with simple certainty. “She doesn’t need me. I go where I am.” He leaned forward, hands rocking over his knees. Then, it sharpened again. The concern evident as he leaned forward worriedly. “She has hurt you, Solas.”

“No more than I hurt her.” Flexing his fingers, Solas glanced down at the sketch in his hand. _So, someone or something is blocking Cole._ Interesting, he’d believed he was stopping himself. Yet, would he have found her if he’d looked? Perhaps the same had been stopping him, or, at the very least, interfering. “I might not have wished to, but I deserved to hear it. To experience her pain.” He sighed. “I have been selfish.”

“Yes,” Cole said slowly, “you felt you had to be.”

“That does not matter,” Solas said slowly. “My intentions cannot excuse the pain I caused.” Oftentimes, Cole acted more as an echoing chamber. Allowing him to hear what he felt he needed to, rather than the truth. “It was cruel of me, and she was right to let me know my error.”

“Even though she hurt you?”

“Pain happens often when we make mistakes.” He sighed. Eirwen’s rage filled eyes swam before him, hard with their icy sheen. _You will leave. Now._ “I shall not make this one again.”

Cole waddled forward, each knee lifting like a stork. “You should.”

“No,” he said. His hands settled on his knees. “She has made her position clear, Cole. I must respect her wishes. Whether it is only for now or until we reach the end, she has given me reason to rid myself of distraction.”

“She wants you to be happy, Solas, even if she can’t be with you. She doesn’t want you to cry.”

“Happiness?” He stood slowly. The word echoed, beat at his chest with its wrongness. _When was the last time I considered hers?_ Slowly, he studied the floor and the remnants of his desk. _I took her for granted._ Treated her like a dream. No more real than those other shadows surrounding her. A shadow he could engage with and soothe his troubles, consequence free. _A fantasy I longed to join, and if I did…_ he sighed, then it would no longer be a fantasy. _All the pain I caused her would be a reality along with it._

“If she’s real, it means everyone could be.”

Folding the remaining piece of his sketch over in his fingers, he slipped it into his pocket. A sad, wry smile tugged his mouth. “She is real, Cole.”

Behind him, he felt his young friend start. “Yes, yes, she is.” Cole’s shadow pressed against his back.

_Love me? You don’t even know me._

Solas studied the blackened scorch marks on the stone. His eyes shifted to slick, gray stone walls, empty of any decoration but those they’d discovered here. Gaze moving to the snow capped mountains beyond his window, he withheld another sigh. _I suppose, if that is true, then it may be time to discover you._

“She lost her arm?” Cole asked. “I saw her hurt. Severed. She must be in pain. Lost. Solas... why I can’t feel it?”

“Perhaps,” his eyes swung up to the map and the markers around Norba, “we ought to find out.”

“Yes,” Cole said. “I think that would be good.”

 _Magister Cornelia’s grand auction will begin today._ He tried not to spend too much time pondering Tevinter, the persistent abuse there and among the Qun was too infuriating to contemplate. _I found Eirwen in the…_ he closed his eyes and sighed, _arena._ Of course, of course, a grand display of Imperial power with the largest collection of fresh captures soon to be sold would be the perfect opportunity for a devastating blow. He lifted a hand to his temple, rubbing it irritably. It answered the all important question of why she would work with a Magister like Claudius, or offer to retake Norba. _Yet without the aid of Inquisition resources?_ She could not do it single handed. _She would not use them if she feared the Chantry’s response to her change. Ultimately, she must have developed other contacts like Claudius._ In less than three months? _She hijacked one of the Resistance movements in Norba. Secure access to Claudius’ research by retaking his city, situate herself to place a hand on the rudder, guiding from outside the limelight, and rob Tevinter of would be slaves in the process._

Yes, that manner of plotting felt like Eirwen.

He could take no credit for it as they’d spoken very little about politics, and he never dared. She was far too sharp and had an irritating tendency to refuse suggestions offered at face value, especially if they came with nothing. Elven mage she could accept. An elven apostate who spoke about political maneuvering as if he were an insider? No, his single gaff at Halamshiral had lead to endless questions and curious glances. She never accepted his experience with the Fade as the easy excuse for inexplicable understanding. Smiling, Solas let his hand rise to the crystal hanging round his neck. _She made it so easy to tell her anything, which often gave way to everything._ Half a truth never satisfied. Eirwen wanted the whole. _And I… I still want to give it._

He wanted to, now more than ever before.

“She is trouble,” Cole said, echoing his thoughts.

“Yes,” Solas agreed, lightly. “One never knows what she’ll get up to.”

“You… you don’t want to save her, Solas. You wish you could follow her into it.”

He smiled. “It was the most fun I’d had in centuries, reminding me of my much younger self. I do not doubt Eirwen, even if there were no Corypheus and no Anchor, would find trouble on her own.” Again, his eyes caressed the map marker indicating Norba. “Some other cause worth investing in and fighting for.”

 _I’ll show you this world’s worth living in,_ she’d said.

_You intend to rob Tevinter of their slaves._

That was, indeed, a cause worth fighting for.

 

***

 

As the pearly gray light of dawn broke across the mountains, Dirthamen carried the Girl down a set of carefully crafted marble stairs and away from the bathhouse. Bare feet crunched through the snow’s thin surface layer of ice, while he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead. On the small ramshackle hut, no more than a ruin really, at the end of it. Lip curling at the sight of a dilapidated roof made from rotting wood and sodden straw, the broken walls, water frozen while seeping through mud bricks. The front door missing, the door and the entire wall meant to support it. Sharpened vision showed him caved cracks and rotted edges, the empty sockets where iron nails should have held it together. There was no sign at all of the vanished wall. Ripped away by wind at some point in the distant past, it seemed.

He kept his eyes up, calmly scanning the area.

He did not look down.

There was little reason to, the only existing well outside the boundaries of propriety. Not that he’d ever cared much for propriety. His lips twitched. _Or boundaries._ A well-honed sense of decorum served only to debilitate one in his position. He could afford to take nothing at face value, believe in no best intentions, hold to no optimism. Individuals acted out, acting on their desires. Whether they sought them for personal gain, for greed, for selflessness, a desire to do good, or some great cause, it came to naught. All personal details were suspect, the satisfaction of curiosity paramount. Even if he were to believe; when offered optional routes, they only disappointed.

The Girl in his arms was no different from those others. The ones who begged his aid, convinced they could use him to achieve their aims. Shadows or gods, it hardly mattered. His knowledge could be bartered, traded, and bought. Secrets were to be used, understanding given. Outside the shadows, he was to be found not quite as terrifying as legends depicted. He could be approached without fear. They knew themselves clever enough to trick a trickster.

Her body was only a body. No more well-formed than the average, and no more than average. Slighter, smaller than the women of his day. A condition due to being underfed, chronically. The size of one that lived the life of hunter and gatherer. Yet, still only a body. A skin sheath encasing meat, inside was blood, bone and sinew. With a lifetime of accumulated damage ready to spill out its story. Memories woven into tangled nerves, in the scars raising soft flesh. He had no need of the Fade to see them, not in dreams. Not even in the mind itself. He saw it in the lines, damage caused by age and hard living. From a slightly jilted spinal column, leading to a slight, almost unnoticeable limp in the left leg. The faint trails of Fen’Harel’s magic in the shoulder, where hard, slick, waxy skin signaled a traumatical removal. A scar, ancient by this body’s standards, cut across the eye.

Dirthamen could see it all, weighted in his arms and shaped within his mind’s eye. It would cost him nothing to make a study of her with his body’s vision, and he would glean no new information from it. He could, but did not.

_What do you want?_

_Nothing._

Renan Dirthim had meant she wanted nothing from him. He almost shook his head. No matter how true the statement rang, he knew it to be a lie. His head tilted, and he adjusted his grip. Letting her sleeping head roll against his shoulder. Cascading silver-white curls, the same color as this sky’s starlight, fell across his arm. The cold, rawly crisp stench of winter invading his nostrils. “We all have want of something, felasera.” He drew in a deep breath, felt the strangeness inherent in making use of neglected vocal chords. _It is best to practice._ While he preferred the clarity in mind to mind, it’d do him few favors with this one. He cast another glance in the direction of the Girl’s hovel, lip curling. “Even if it is merely a decent night’s rest.”

Used to the outdoors or no, she could hardly sleep well in such a place. A place where she half-froze in her sleep, a central place for disease among rotted wood, drafty walls, wet straw, and mildew. If it weren’t for the cold, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had fleas or to find her hair infested with lice. Events were made all the more interesting due to this being her personal preference, rather than circumstantial. As far as he could tell, no one forced her to stay in this uncomfortable hotbed.

Those below would turn out their houses, themselves, and even their own children to provide her with a bed. Then there was that boxy castle he’d glimpsed in her memories, a human structure built on the remains of Tarasyl’an Tel’as. Fen’Harel’s stronghold, where he enacted his grand experiment. She might have gone there. Or to where her family ruled over some pisshole city. Anywhere those who loved her waited.

No reason for it, except one.

“Punishing yourself, perhaps?” Dirthamen asked. “Religious icon living in the wilderness, away from any and all who might aid her, dismayed and disappointed with the world. Struggling to build outside the boundaries of civilization’s rules.” He smiled. “You grow more curious.”

Renan Dirthim’s head rolled against his shoulder, lines of her face remaining smooth and childlike as she failed to respond.

He did not expect one. In her slight struggle, when he'd felt Fen'Harel strike her dreaming mind from the Fade, he had ensured she could not. Laid another sleep upon her, a protective geas shrouded the edges of her dreaming mind. Placed to keep her from again wandering into dangerous waters. It aided in arranging a dreamless slumber, one similar in structure to those stone children, the durgen’len. He’d developed the technique in ages past by way of studying Mythal's Titans, to counteract Fen’Harel's nosy habits and more murderous inclinations. Even in a time when they did not strike against each other directly, his youngest brother had been more than willing to utilize his special talents to seek out those missing agents of his or Dirthamen’s own sympathizers. Torment them with nightmares, or end their lives before they might spill the beans. Once, Fen’Harel believed himself skilled enough to spy on Dirthamen’s own dreams as Dirthamen himself might have with his mind in their waking hours.

He failed, of course. Yet the memory of danger remained.

 _Decent rest requires peace, the freedom to relax._ She could hardly do so with wolves prowling at the door. If there were no dreams, then at this range there was little his erstwhile brother could do. _He never understood the limits of specialization or obsession._ Never chose to understand. Could not truly see the strength of magic which originated within life, rather than the Beyond. Clung to strongly to their origins, rejecting flesh and blood. Fen’Harel longed to return to the impossible, as he always had.

Dirthamen sighed, coming to a stop before the remnants of the shack. Behind it, pines extended into the distance. “I am afraid I cannot be impressed by your temptation of our childish pup, felasera.” He flicked his chin up and to the left. “He has ever let his loins bound ahead of both his mind and common sense.” The snow rumbled, shook, and sent a spray of white powder flying up into the gray dawn light. It shimmered as it fell, transformed to a pearly pink.“His self-control has always left much to be desired.” The sun had not yet peeked over the horizon. “You are not the first to distract him.” He chuckled as the wood heaved itself upright, ceiling lifting, and watched the caved straw roof vanish with a snap. “I doubt you will be the last.”

It was a simple spell, meant to restore rather than repair and return the cabin to its previous state. Or, at least, it should’ve been. Magic ripped down his arms in a wave, crashing hard against an unseen barrier. Warped energies of the Fade sundered at the Veil, leaking through like drips seeping through cracks in a dam. Wind swirled about his legs, carrying away the snow. The ground raised and snapped outward in a hard, angry rumble. A wooden floor followed, even, smooth, and polished rather than rough.

Then, it stopped and magic paused.

_As if it were waiting._

“Ah,” Dirthamen frowned. “I see.” His gaze drifted a little lower toward the Girl in his arms. “If this is all you’ve had to work with, felasera, I am far more impressed than before.” Then, he chuckled. “It is good, I suppose, that I’ve another source to draw from.”  

Burning off a mote of blood, he let flow into his pool of mana and enhance the spell’s power. Immediately, the walls jumped three feet skyward. The fourth one, the new one, appeared in a dazzling gray shift. Crafted from unused trees further up the mountain which, he suspected, no one would miss. A second mote lay in a roof shaped it from crystal drawn from deep beneath the earth. Crystal more than wood, stone, straw, or clay excelled at keeping out unwanted drafts.

Hiding silver-green surface under a sheaf of wooden panels, he turned his gaze to the ugly square slot for a door. Lips twitched. “What is it with your shemlen carvers and rectangles?” Added decoration, or forbid it, elvhen might be too obvious. Especially for a door way in which the opening swung on, he almost shuddered, hinges. He scanned it with a sigh. “We’ll let the magic decide.” A wiggle of his brows brought a thick brown slab into being and shoved it into place. He strode forward, calmly stepping across the threshold as the new door swung out to greet him.

The interior was entirely his conceit. Great drifts of snow had been banished and replaced by small elvhen furniture summoned from one of his many, apparently undiscovered, strongholds, crystal sconces on the walls replaced the irritating and wasteful candles. A round table with several chairs stood opposed to a small cooking station at the right end of the cabin, square cabinets hung above it and over a few long countertops meant to aid in food preparation. To their left, her bookshelf extended out below a large rectangular window.

Ah, had he accidentally added in windows?

_I suspect the likes of glass is expensive for the average peasant._

East facing, he suspected it let the light in well.

His lips twitched, then he sighed. “Why not?”

The Girl could move if she didn’t like it.

Smooth panes spread across the opening like ice freezing over a lake. He glanced at the stone fireplace, the large leather armchair beside it denoting a reading area, and watched a pleasant fire spring to life. Then, he crossed to the plush bed large enough for three he’d set down in cabin’s the far corner and near a second door leading out. It was an elvhen bed, grown over three centuries from living wood. A warm, robust chestnut frame rather than the usual black. Round instead of square, an oval circle. It didn’t quite fit in with the boxy theme of the original shack, and still didn’t but comfort overrode style. Moreover the magical enchantments on the mattress had survived, the kind devoted to protecting it from age, disease, and insectoids. The sort which ensured a good night’s sleep.

Dirthamen strode to it, boards refusing to creak beneath his feet. _I ought to have added a cellar._ “Fen’Harel does not understand himself as usual.” He glanced down at the eggshell sheets, a fine comfortable linen. Over it were a few furs, he’d been willing to part with. Great bear, precisely, as a personal touch. Preserved to perfection like the rest of what had been his. _Well, what I cared to save._ He lifted her a little closer, balancing her on his chest, he drew back the sheets. “In a state of devastation and despair, he is even less capable in terms of rational action. More likely to pursue his desires.” He smiled, leaning down to deposit her on the bed. “When one is grief stricken and lonely, they are most likely to grasp for the first kind person they see.” His eyes dropped to her left shoulder, the waxy burns where an arm used to be. Fingers hovered above her silver head, but moved down to tuck linen sheets around her shoulders. “That yappy dog is narcissistic enough to see the one stricken by his magic as the only mind truly woken in this dismal world.”

On the bed, the Girl rolled over. One hand stretched out, sleepily, to brush against his thigh. She murmured softly, though he could not make out what she said.

He knelt until they were nearly eye to eye, and clasped her fingers gently in his. Slowly, he put them back on the bed. “Sleep well, Renan.”

Dirthamen turned on his heel, crossing back across the small cabin to sweep a left out tome off the dresser. A grimoire of Mythal’s by its scent and taste, he opened it with a flick of his wrist. Faintly human in its magical signature. Small smile tucking the corner of his mouth, he ran his fingers down a crinkled page. “Hello, Mother.” His eyes flicked back to the bed, to the closed mind, and the Girl’s specific, effective mental preparations. _I ought to have guessed._ Those which suddenly made a great deal more sense. “I see you have business here as well.”

The Girl’s eyes remained closed, lashes brushing over the pillow, oval face contentedly smooth, her right arm stretched out loosely. A few silver bangs curled around her cheek, hair swirling over her shoulders in a stream of starlight. From here, he could see the tiny horns poking from her forehead. The fractured body's half-image shifting between elf and halla. All signs of a transformation not yet complete.

Dirthamen smiled, gaze returning to the book. He lifted his other hand, magic burning on his fingers as they drifted over the page. New runes appeared, gleaming under the light. Unlike the previous language, this was unmistakably elvhen. His brows rose. “With us both, it seems.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felasera means "Slow Mage" in Elvhen. I'll leave it up to you to decide whether it's an insult.
> 
> Renan is Voice, so Renan Dirthim translates to Voice Where Secrets Begin. Eirwen translated it as the Voice Where MY Secrets Begin (My meaning belonging to Dirthamen, but the question is whether or not she's right.) 
> 
> I'm starting to really like Dirthamen as a character. I didn't really expect to, you know. He wasn't supposed to begin evolving toward a triangle, but things happen as we write. Faceless, nameless, personalityless characters are ultimately less interesting to me. Characters that are people, especially people with a great deal of power, fascinate me more. And Dirthamen is turning out to be pretty interesting all on his own.
> 
> He will keep insulting Solas, I promise you. I doubt I can stop him. Fen'Harel/Solas' history with the other Evanuris is one of the most potentially fascinating things about him. We have no one in Inquisition who truly knows him, who is capable of getting under his skin in the way someone like Dirthamen could. It's interesting to ask the question, "is he right about them?"
> 
> Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe people can change.
> 
> Anyway, it's going to be a good deal of fun. I hope you laughed as much as I did on Dirth's bit. The God of Secrets and Knowledge pauses to build a house, not even his house, and gives away his hand me downs. I don't know if he even plans to take credit for it.
> 
> Hee.


	12. Chapter 12

When Eirwen woke, the sun was shining. Underneath her, the ground was soft. Her body wrapped in warmth. The entire room bright, and a tangy, wonderful smell infiltrated her nose. Her stomach gurgled. In the background, something was crackling. Like… _is that a fire?_ Fingers slid out across the soft surface, indenting under her palm. It was smooth, the smoothest. Like sleeping on a cloud. _I’m on a bed._ She hadn’t... hadn’t felt this good since... _Skyhold._

Lips curving to a smile, she nuzzled her pillow. Inhaled deeply, the fresh scent of recently baked bread, porridge with honey for breakfast, practice swords clanging against wooden shields below her window. Cawing ravens on her balcony, chattering over pastries stolen from the kitchen. _Back where everyone is._ Everyone she’d once called friend. _Josephine._ _Varric. Cassandra. Leliana. Blackwall. Cole. Cullen. Dorian. Iron Bull. Vivienne._ Heart hammering, her fingers clenched on the bed. “Solas!”

Eirwen flung back the sheets, sitting up.

Pain lanced down her spine.

She winced.

Still, no one answered. _No, no, of course not._ She wasn’t in Skyhold, not in the Frostbacks, far from the Inquisition. Well southwest of Fereldan, instead, in the Samhal Valley. _Or I should be._ The feeling of being refreshed, the comfortable bed rather than a pallet, pillows filled with goose feathers rather than straw… she lifted her eyes, surveying the room.

Blinked.

_No..._

This was her cabin, she knew. It had to be, she recognized the construction, the carvings, her dresser, the vanity she’d found here, her trunk with her belongings, and her bookshelf. However... it had grown to nearly twice the size. The snow had been cleaned away. A bed, stylized unlike any she’d ever seen, added. _With both sheets and furs._ Light bloomed on the walls from crystal sconces, glittering like glass and reminiscent of natural sunlight. A large egg-shaped armchair sat in the far corner with an oval footstool, while someone had put in an thick case of black wood and filled it not with leather bound tomes but tiny crystals. They were multiple colors, blue and green, silver, reddish purple. A few round balls sat at the ends of the different collections, placed in small bowls made from slick looking metal. The balls reminded her of the Corypheus’ or, she supposed Solas’, orb, except smaller. Comfortable to fit in an elven palm.

 _Like a… bookcase?_ She’d seen similar tools in Tevinter, though the design here was less familiar. Her head tilted. _It couldn’t be._

A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, her books were still in their place underneath the window. Someone had placed a table next to them, and on it…  her stomach growled again, this time more insistently. A bowl of something that smelled like porridge and wooden trencher filled with fresh flat bread set out on the table.

Her lips pursed. Solas? He hadn’t found her, had he?

 _Don’t be foolish._ This was the kind of care and consideration she hoped he’d give, not what materialized. _Especially not after the conversation we had in the Fade._ That had been real. He’d probably never look her way again. _Considering everything, that’s been done, everything I plan to do, it’s for the best._ Her eyes dropped to her breasts and the thin, shallow scar between them. She swallowed. _For the best._ Keeping him as far from her as possible. _I’ll never have to look at him and wonder when the other shoe will drop._

No, she shook her head, he hadn’t done this.

_So, who did?_

A powerful mage, obviously. Someone who could crack the barriers around her home, find her asleep in the bath, and fix this place without her even waking. Solas was off the table as a possibility clearly, so that left… _Dirthamen?_

_Ha!_

It couldn’t be. None of the Creators she’d met, the Evanuris, they never gave anything away for free. They were like demons, always wanted something. _He’d never do it just to be nice._ One didn’t put this kind of magical effort into an investment with zero expectation of return. What did she have to offer? He’d already proven capable of penetrating her mind. She couldn’t stop him if he did. So, why wouldn’t he just make her his pawn? Enslave her? It’d take less effort.

 _He wouldn’t, not unless it was some kind of sick game._ Wine and dine, manipulate, make her his pawn then use her the way Mythal had. The way Solas had. _Maybe he just decided to come at it the other way._ That was outside the pattern. _Either way, it’s a lot of work for nothing._

Eirwen swung her legs over the bed’s edge, back twinging. Again, she winced. _So comfortable, I forgot. My back is one big bruise._ She reached up to rub the back of her stiff neck. Relief never materialized. Biting the inside her cheek, she narrowed her eyes. Her right hand twitched. _Focus._ Light flared off her left side, then ghostly fingers prodded slowly down from under her hairline and along her spine. They pricked, ungainly. Eirwen gritted her teeth, her eyes scanning the room again. _Either way, I need to get moving._

She had a long day ahead of her.

Pushing herself to her feet and ignoring the rumbling in her stomach, she went to the vanity. With her left hand, she picked up the silver chain and silver crystal off the cracked surface. Sliding it around her neck, she shut the clasp with a snap. Studied herself in the mirror with a frown. Deep shadows formed circles under hollow blue eyes, contrasting badly with skin that was far too white. Her silver hair curled limply around her cheeks rather than luxuriously. It coursed over her shoulders in fine strands, hanging down over small breasts. Both pale skin and hair were considered fashionably exotic in Tevinter, aiding in the lataen masquerade.

Many Magisters assumed she’d been modified by her masters to be more appealing, more visually pleasing. That was the elven narrative across Thedas, their delicate beauty existed to be commodified.

Flat, ice-blue irises found her face.

_You are so beautiful._

Right hand fingers rose, pads finding the deep indent tracing down the deep scar over her left eye. Let her gaze slide to the thin waxy line exposing where her projection hid away the stump. The slight, raised scars across her collarbone. Incredibly pale skin which never reddened in the sun, never tanned, never freckled, exposing each crack and crevice. All color bleached from her hair to match. The blue vallaslin once dedicating her to Falon’din only a memory. A worn and tired face stared back. Thin lines creased around her mouth, delicate cracks at her eyes. Dry lips, the fine faded scars of the recent months slashed through her mouth, the hook cut underneath her pointed chin. _Beautiful._

 _Beautiful._ She laughed, flattening her bangs against her head. _What a crock, what a sack of shit._ That’s all it was. Standing here alone, surrounded by warm light and the scent of good food only served as a pale reminder. _Everything I was, everything I wasn’t, and everything I never will be._ She glanced over her shoulder at the tray on the table, squelching her stomach’s growl. Her thumb passed over the silver crystal at the base of her throat. It flared for a moment, light washed down her back, across her chest, and over her arms, shimmering around her knees. In the next, Eirwen stood clothed in her training leathers. Her left hand collapsed in a thousand yellow particles drifting to the floor.

Head tilting, she studied herself in the mirror again, eyes flicking to the carved hole on the left side where her arm had been.

“This is who I am,” she told her reflection calmly. “It’s all I am.”

It was time to let go.

The reflection rippled and a redheaded Eirwen stared back. The image of Command with a single right hand extended to press against the glass.

“Ir abelas, falon.” Eirwen reached out and found the other woman’s splayed fingers. Flattening her palm over it, her lips twitched. “Be everything for them I couldn’t.”

Her old self smiled. _As you command, I will be._ Her mouth formed words. _I am that which was, the Inquisitor, I shall lead them in your place._

“For the future.”

_For the future._

“One mortal life is given to create another,” Eirwen said. “I am myself no longer. I am you as you are me, whole in spirit as I was in flesh. Never to be reunited with this world of mortals.”

 _Sahlin andaran setheneran,_ the voice in the glass whispered.

_In this moment, I dwell in this place, this land of waking dreams._

“Sahlin adaran in uthenera,” Eirwen replied.

_In this moment, I dwell in this place, this eternal waking dream._

“Ar elgar din, ar vhen’alas,” the other Eirwen said.

_I am spirit no longer, I am the earth._

“Ar alas’elgarin, ar elgar,” Eirwen said.

_I am the spirit within the earth, I am our spirit._

“Ar elvhen.” The other Eirwen said, “in elgar sa vir mana, blandival ma ghilan.”  

_I am of the People. Take spirit from the long ago, believe your guide._

“Elgara vallas tu vhen’alas, elvhen nadas halamshiral,” Eirwen intoned.

_Sun sets on this earth, our inevitable journey’s end._

“Suledin, da’len!” The other Eirwen cried, her fingers clenched on the other side of the glass. “Sahlin ar ghilani ma mahvir’elvhen aravas. Ara ma’athlan vhenas.”

_Endure, child! In this moment, I guide you Tomorrow’s People on a journey. I will call you home._

Eirwen’s fingers fell away.

“Revasin ma, andaran revasan,” the other Eirwen continued. “Venavis, var halamnan vir samhal la numin.”

_Freedom is within me, in this place freedom dwells. Stop, our revenge has ended in laughter and tears._

She turned, left the vanity, as the other Eirwen kept talking. Crossed the room, past the table with the porridge and bread. Instead, she stopped beside a doorway. A small dial sat there, a panel made of small blue crystals. Similar in visual to lyrium, a small set of cogs allowed the dial to turn. Glyphs were marked on the walls in simple chalk lines. Sigils indicating four different locations, embedded with magic. The dial ticked, clicked as she turned it so the arrow pointed directly down. As it did, the tip glowed a bright, wild, electric blue.

Calmly, Eirwen opened the door and stared at the shimmering wall of blue light reminiscent of an eluvian. She paused. “If whoever did this is still here,” she said calmly, glancing back over her shoulder and letting one eye scan the room, “I hope you’ve enjoyed the show.”

As she stepped through the door a cold wind rattled the windows and echoed out from the shadows beside the fireplace. Almost like someone was laughing.

A shiver passed up her spine. _I hate when my instincts are right._

Warm air embraced her face and she exited into bright tropical light. Eirwen stepped into the tiny paddock kept beside an aravel. Her aravel technically, though she never used the actual interior. Just a single aravel in a small glade, not far outside the Arlathan forest in what was now Eastern Tevinter. Her eyes twinged, feeling the morning’s grayness. The glade was far from any local roads, without easy travel, but served as a nice hub that eased her access when it came to navigating across Tevinter’s magic heavy provinces. Here, she could make short jumps to Claudius’ estates, the city of Norba, and all rebellion strongholds hidden in the old underground slave caverns. Most in the Imperium believed the old tunnels collapsed in 785 as part of a beginning effort to halt the First Blight’s advance.

Currently, the glade went undisturbed which made it perfect for her needs. She’d built a small paddock to the left of the wagon. Only for show as no halla lived here. _Except one,_ she thought mildly, _and she sometimes prefers a soft mattress to a bed of straw._ Instead, she used it for a practice arena. Crudely reminiscent of the one at Skyhold, it served its purpose well.

Grass whispered between her toes, still soft and slightly chilly from the previous night’s rain. Her glade never warmed quite like the rest of the forest. It was always just a few degrees cooler than the usual tropical weather.

A wave of her hand brought a swordsman into existence. Clanking in heavy plate, the tall human sized being stalked toward her. Moonbeams glanced of its silver maille, taking the helmet into careful consideration. It didn’t pause a step as it unsheathed its shining blade.

A flick of her right wrist and a practice sword sprang from the aravel’s wall, it slipped free from the iron bindings. It whipped around the corner, speeding over the fence. Flew to her. Outstretched right hand, her real hand, closing on the hilt, she jumped back as the apparition lunged.

The apparition’s blade pierced out of the dark, hewing diagonally across her center. Missed. It switched back, hand rotating the pommel. Cut up.

 _Fenhedis!_ Eirwen grit her teeth. Forcing herself to practice with the single arm, she lacked that extra power and leverage. _I won’t always have my projection. A templar could banish it._ It could be lost anyway, if her concentration was broken. She brought her sword in, a little slowly and a little more awkwardly. Catching the lunging blade along the edge and turned, deflecting the strike.

Three months earlier, her right had been the power hand and her dominant, her left, the stabilizer. Now, the sluggish, less responsive one would have to carry her through.

The apparition spun, trying to catch her across the throat.

She went left.

It struck back right.

Muscles in her back and shoulders groaned, bruises sending shivering stabs through her center. Her blade wobbled. Wrist trembling, used to being loose instead of locked.   _Against swordsmen trained their entire lives, against Tevinter’s exceptional magekillers, against Templars who banish my magic, against Solas’ immortal Sentinels and other agents, the list goes on._

She lunged, blade snaking toward the gap between pauldron and chestplate. Glanced off the plate. Flinging herself sideways into a roll, Eirwen avoided the apparition’s cut. Shoulder shrieking as she landed, she swung onto her feet.

Her ghost advanced. Blade up, it leaped forward again.

 _What do you wish of me?_ The words filtered through her mind. Rattling in her teeth and wrist when the blades clashed together. _Nothing._ She twisted hers sideways. _I wish I had the courage._ Disengaging, rolling underneath, she struck toward the apparition’s middle. Bruised, bone weary muscles in her back screaming. _To want more than I do._ The screams she couldn’t let herself utter. _If I did… I wouldn’t be… such a fool._

She connected, her wrist shuddered on impact, blow glancing to the left.

The apparition’s sword struck out, centimeters from her eye.

They went past each other. She stumbling, and her ghost cleanly.

Awkwardly spinning left, ignoring the twist to her ankle, Eirwen brought her blade up just in time for the ghost to slam its down. Again, steel caught steel. Pain lanced up her elbow, electric. Her sword gave way. She turned it, let her ghost slip on the blade’s sudden diagonal, and rammed the pommel into an unguarded throat.

This time, the dummy stumbled.

“Collapsed windpipe,” Eirwen said. Parched lips cracked, the words ached in her raw throat. She drew herself upright, knotted muscles complaining with every stretch. “Nasty way to go.”

The apparition slumped, metal plates contorting together around it’s barrel frame. Winged helmet fell to its chest. It rolled inward, gauntlets, pauldrons, and greaves glittering with the faintest yellow light. Moonbeams passed through it and, for another second, it was a true phantasm.

Then it jerked. Straightened. Finally, it stood.

Her body swayed, back tilting slightly sideways, and a wry smile slashed her mouth. “Well,” her voice scraped out, “if you wish to come again, falon, then do so.”

The apparition brought its blade to bear, its two handed grip tightening on the hilt. Mailed fingers twisted. The sword rippled, extending. It lengthened, growing longer and longer, tip piercing out toward the trees. When it reached eight feet, a two less than twice the length of her body, it halted. The apparition turned, swinging it around and back so the tip rested on the grass behind it. One hand rested on the pommel, the other halfway up the hilt.

Sweat dripped from Eirwen’s chin. Too tired to laugh, she lifted her own sword. Saluted. Settled into a beginning stance with blade held before her. _There is nothing to be done._ The ghost used a portion of her concentration, moved according to subconscious will. It would only give up when she did. _Clash and clash, until one of us falls._ Harden her resolve against all comers, to push her limits until they snapped. Until she snapped. _Or I move earth and sky._

Eirwen leaned forward, heel lifting as her weight shifted to the ball of her foot.

The apparition lunged, long blade whipping out. Aimed at her middle, hewing across. When she went sideways, it thrust. Catching her ribs as it pierced through a loose linen practice shirt.

Molars clenched, ground together.

_Be quicker._

Rolling her sword over, Eirwen raced along the blade’s length toward her opponent. Her legs ached, fingers gripped the hilt awkwardly. Her single arm unable to fully support its weight. Thigh muscles shrieking, she lunged with tip directed at her apparition’s helmet.

Its blade rippled, retracted.

The apparition turned toward her with sword braced. Tip pointed at her heart.

_And I’m leaping straight into it._

She couldn’t avoid, but could still reach.

_Double suicide._

If that was all there was, then it was all there would be.

_That’s all there will ever be._

A razor edge pressed to her breastbone, first sensation of a blade’s tip piercing into her chest. Her lips yanked into a wild grin. Narrowed eyes locked on the helmet’s slit. The apparition’s steel hit bone. A loud crack echoed.

Eirwen slammed her sword forward.

Struck air.

The apparition vanished like morning mist burned off the lake by the heat of a rising sun. Gone suddenly as she’d summoned it. She flew through where it had been, momentum carrying her across the grass. Stumbling, Eirwen slipped, feet rolling out from under her and tumbled face first into the ground. Concentration cracked. Instead of grass, she landed heavily in a snow bank.

“When will you cease risking your life so foolishly, girl?” A stern voice echoed through the glade. “I did not gift you with a second chance only to see it wasted in some valley on the edges of Tevinter territory.”

Frozen fingers splayed across the snow’s hard icy crust. Palm crunching it into powder, Eirwen sat up slowly. The cold air clung to her cheeks. Her hair stuck to a chilly forehead, sweat crystallizing on her brow. Tossing the practice sword away into a nearby snow drift, she crouched. All around her, snow glistened in the moonlight. Piled high on low beams, icicles hanging off her aravel. Large white blobs clung to the wide ferns of bonda trees which had never known winter’s icy grasp. White filled the glade to it’s edges, wiping away all signs of green.

Eirwen exhaled heavily. Settled on the balls of her feet, resting on her heels, she glanced left to the shadows between the trees. “And here I am, thinking this to be my third.”

“Only the cat has nine lives, Child of the Dales. Your grace has already come and gone, any other revivals are due to a dwindling usefulness.”

Brushing non-existent snow off her pants, Eirwen let her head fall back and stared up at the sky. Overhead, the rising sun warmed it to a sapphire blue. _I know how this game goes._ “Then, I appreciate you protecting your investment.” She craned her neck sideways, eyes returning to the shadows. “Come for your progress report?”

“In part,” the shadows replied. “I wished to know if Dirthamen had made a slurry of your mind.” They chuckled softly. “Did he? I find myself unconvinced.”

“I escaped,” Eirwen said. Slowly, she straightened and winced when fire lit her nerves. “Though not unscathed.”

“And not entirely whole, I see.”

“No more than expected,” she said. Now that she thought of it, there were holes. Gaps in her head where memories should be and weren’t. Nothing necessary had been stolen. If anything, it seemed he’d only taken what she’d offered him. _Though, how would I know?_ “He took what was his to take and I separated what mattered before I went.”

“As I advised.”

“You were the one who told me that no one walks into Dirthamen’s den and emerges complete.”

“Not even I,” came the agreement. “When one tangles with the ancient beings of this world, there must always be sacrifice. We go with no expectation to return.”

Inclining her head, Eirwen swallowed. She remembered running through Solas’ garden of stone soldiers. Their wide eyes frozen in terror, hands clutching their spears. The heart pounding terror of the moment hadn’t sunk in until after, the powerlessness of it. The fear it might’ve been her. _Fear I can’t let myself feel._ Only use it to fuel her, to force herself to tread carefully, consider her options. _I can’t think of him as a god._ Her gaze traced the shadows. Or any of them that way. _Old, ancient, legends. Beatable legends._ If she gave into her fear, allowed it to paralyze her then...

“He did not see what we sought to hide or he’d never have allowed your escape.”

“I don’t know why,” she said. “I can’t guess his motives.”

“Fortunate for you that some know him better then.”

Eirwen swallowed. There was only so much she could afford to say and ask, only so much derisiveness she could accept. Only so much humiliation she was willing to endure. And Dirthamen? He only left her confused. If he’d been behind the stunt at her cabin, then it made him more of a mystery than before. _Why would anyone waste that much power for nothing?_ Her hands clenched. There was a chance for answers. _Play the fool._ Easy enough, she was the fool anyway. “He asked me what I want.”

“Dirthamen has renamed you, claimed you for himself.” She heard the laughter rippling in the shadows. “It was expected. That mind of yours is the kind which appeals to him most.” Another laugh. “It is good to know so many centuries locked in slumber has given him little time to reflect, less to change.” Another pause. “No, events shall continue according to their course.”

“Yes,” Eriwen said, the stump where her arm had been itched. There wasn’t much point in arguing. “I aided your plan, now you help with mine.”

She felt the semblance of agreement in the silence. “Has Command gone to Skyhold?”

Eirwen nodded. The sun was barely above the treeline here, but it would be moving toward afternoon in the Frostbacks. She could see Command in her mind’s eye, approaching the gates on her overly affectionate hart, Enaste. The line of soldiers waiting to greet her, cheering for the Inquisitor they remembered. The one missing only half her left arm. As real and mortal as Cole might’ve been. A reflection carrying all her mortal hopes and dreams, all she’d left behind. “She should be arriving at the gates with her escort now.”

“I see,” the voice said. “I have spoken on your behalf to the dragon Ataashi, as you refused to learn the bindings.”

Eirwen’s lips twitched. This was an old argument.

“She has agreed to aid you in return for a small price.”

 _Sanctuary._ Eirwen sighed. _Sanctuary in the Samhal Valley._ What else could a weakened dragon too wounded to fly far from Qunari lands want? Well, this had been her brilliant idea. “Serannas,” she said. “I suppose it was the least you could do.”

The shadows laughed. “Perhaps, girl. I warn you, two dragons may be unwilling to share so small a territory.”

“They’ll have to.” Her eyes swept the glade, seeking out the now melting snow dripping in great globs off the trees. She inhaled deeply. “If we’re done, I have a Magister to kill.”

“Yes, yes, I know, what a lovely death you have planned for him.”

“Her,” Eirwen said.

“And a him too. All in due course, girl. With my aid you will create wonders.”

Eirwen inclined her head, biting her cheek to still a smile. Her fingertips brushed the crystal at her throat. The training leathers evaporated in a flash of silver, replaced by thin fabric of a gown. The proper dress of a Lataen preparing to serve her mistress. “I am at your service as always, _All-Mother_.”

“So you are,” Mythal replied. “Never fear, girl. You will not be alone as you walk today’s trials.”

Eirwen lifted her head, watching as two disembodied eyes within the shadows flared bright blue.

“I shall be with you.”

 _Lucky me,_ Eirwen thought wryly. Eyes lifting to the trees, then above to the distant golden towers of Norba. There, she could see silver and green streamers flying off the parapets. Trailing lines of pink mage-made smoke winding through the air, buffeted by the morning breeze. Shining lights in violet, gold, emerald, and sapphire drifting over the city in a shroud of tiny stars brighter than the rising sun. Huge paper dragons, the size of a carts, soared between them through the cloudless sky. Some left overs from yesterday's celebrations, some from the one that had only just begun. The stirrings of music invaded her ears, come from the road only half a mile away. Travelers from the surrounding countryside riding to the celebrations and the afternoon's auction.

A day full of pageantry all to end in blood, tears, and a destruction all of Tevinter would not soon forget.

Eirwen smiled.

Lucky her indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter took a little while to put together, but we're moving forward. The plot thickens. The wheel turns to reveal not one god, but three. Dangerous games are afoot.
> 
> I borrowed the dial from Howl's Moving Castle, it felt appropriate.
> 
> The elven translations are provided in the text itself, so I didn't feel the need to add them down here. There's nothing that annoys me more than not being able to understand what two characters are saying. (Damn you, Bioware.) I put together that whole thing by looking at the elven language wiki. A few phrases are pulled from the songs "Mir Da'len" and "Suledin". No FenxShiral. It's not as great as it could be, but I tried.
> 
> I didn't expect Command to become a real character, but she did. A helpful deception, for these characters. Will there be more Evanuris in this story? I don't know. Just three plus Eirwen are a handful. Either way, we're moving to Tevinter and slave rebellions.
> 
> ACTION! ADVENTURE! Maybe some reunions? Who knows.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed.


	13. Chapter 13

Command stepped away from the mirror and the vanity, turning to glance at the Inquisitor’s quarters. One hand flattened on her thighs as she inhaled a deep breath. Her quarters now. The gray box with stone walls, the flat balcony overlooking a sharp drop. Bed covered in plush furs and velvet. Desk in the corner, covered in letters from well wishers. Flowers of all kind properly, white, blue, yellow, and violet placed in vases and set upon nearly every raised surface. Garlands of white flowers with a red star hung over her bed. A large pile of unopened boxes sat in one corner. _Gifts._

All unnecessary.

Her lungs collapsed with a heavy exhale. She’d been unfamiliar with the sound at first, with breathing in general. The strange weight lungs left in her chest. The way her flesh behaved of its own accord, functioned without her needing to instruct it. As if it moved according to its own desire separate from her conscious self. Difficult to understand in the beginning, the process of allowing the body to breathe without express instruction. Odd and out of place, this fleshy sack. It had it’s own desire to live and learning to let it within the first few hours had been required. Fortunately, her learning happened within the safety of Sun Bear Hold where the Clan Shaman watched and instructed her on necessary human functions such as breathing, eating, and… her knees clenched at the last thought of warm yellow liquid sliding down her thigh. _That._

She remembered crouching on a stone floor, arms wrapped around her knees, mouth leaking liquid at the platter set out in front of her. A gurgling stomach filled with twinging pangs, no desire but to fall to one side and lie catatonic. Her throat choked on the atmosphere’s strange filaments, ragged sounds emerging between weak coughs. Horrible acidic smells assaulted her nose, greasy and burned yet also strangely desirous.

The first experience with the mortal sensation known as hunger.

Command watched her nostrils flare, counting back through the assorted memories to find the correct path on which to next proceed.

Her right hand clenched.

_I must reply to the notes._

Or, better, request a scribe so she might dictate. The old Eirwen had no left arm, and her arm had been the dominant one. For all that she might struggle to overcome the handicap, Command knew Eirwen Lavellan to be a supremely practical. _And, I must also remember the handicap._ If she did not, then it would not become a part of her. _Drawing directly on the energy of the Fade, the hand might regrow itself were it commanded to._ Or the world may respond because she wished with an ability no mortal mage of this time possessed. _Eirwen insisted I be careful._ Avoid the Templars and the one known as Cullen until she was secure in her new guise, gave no outward signs of a spirit. _I cannot remind anyone of Compassion Called Cole._ It all meant duplicity. One of the many subtle changes made to her nature, changes she’d begun to enjoy.

Command knew she may be Eirwen Lavellan in body, may share her memories in mind, and, given enough time, was certain to become her in total, that day had not yet come. _It is well I do not forget._ This world remained unfriendly to spirits and were likely to mistake her as an abomination, rather than a creature newly mortal. _I must proceed with the exchange, cautiously but without delay._

She rested her hand on the vanity, swallowing another breath. Eyes swung to the closets, the endless parade of clothing. Mind sorted through various bits of data rising to the surface, she had no use for the elaborate and fancy. No use for the many dresses Josephine Montilyet and Leliana insisted spending valuable Inquisition resources on. No, no use for any of it. The shiny baubles would fetch a fine price, they could be auctioned for more resources with which they might undercut the Fereldan nobility.

Her head tilted and she studied the red cloth in the mirror. Left hand touched her stomach as she turned, back and forth to study her profile. Loose, but sturdy. The cloth gave sign of authority, meshed well with the gold thread and buttons. It’s darker tones complimented her orange hair, brought a new warmth to the light blue eyes.

Yes, Command decided, she would keep the uniform.

_I will require an assistant._

Eirwen Lavellan preferred to handle everything on her own.

Command did not have that luxury.

In order for their plan to succeed, she would be required to re-allocate resources and diversify. A true Inner Circle must be created, filled with those loyal souls who shared Eirwen Lavellan’s ideological perspective and philosophy, who wanted what she did, and who were loyal to those goals. _The unfortunate truth being that it may not include any of those who originally followed._ The founders of the Inquisition had wanted order restored to Thedas.

Her hand clenched on white paint. Eyes lifted to the red and black walls, to the large hexagonal wooden tub and new painting hanging above Eirwen Lavellan’s luxurious Orlesian bed. It’s silken sheets threaded with gold, cream colored comforter, the huge, square pillows. It had golden paws for feet, twining with leaves of ivy. All white and gold, all the finest quality.

Eirwen Lavellan did not want to restore the status quo, a return to the way things were before.

_No._

Command’s lips twitched.

She wanted it reborn.

_In fire, in blood, and in the chaos which ensues._

Where the structures of the old world would be torn down, the corrupt and the indolent would fall, those who used their lofty positions of power to abuse the weak would be destroyed. Change would come to Thedas, it was so commanded.

“It begins today,” Command whispered to her reflection.

Today, they would show the world there was more than just one dream, more than just one civilization, more than just the Fen’Harel way and the rest of the world fighting to stop him. More than just survival, more than just stasis and required compromise. No assumed right to live. No overlooking of injustice, the small would band together against all comers. Until, in time, they stood on the shoulders of giants.

Command pulled Eirwen Lavellan’s lips into a smile. She could feel her other self, far away, on the other side of the world, striding through the streets of Norba. Dressed in linen. The burning confidence in her heart, the readiness, and determination.

It all echoed back.

Their spirits intertwined with tight tendrils, strings carving small, quiet holes through the Veil. Behind that, she could feel the spirits on the other side. The growing mass pressing against the invisible barrier, ready to answer her call to arms. Pride could call upon his spirit friends. Her upper lip curled. Command was the essence. Together with the Inquisitor Eirwen Lavellan, she’d become the heart of this war.

When she called upon the host, it answered.

There were spirits in both worlds who loved mortals. Spirits who remembered the time before, who had no wish to see Fen’Harel’s dream rise. Spirits who loved. Who would see what they cared for kept safe.

_There is not a single side._

They all agreed the world was unacceptable.

Today, they’d start creating a world worth fighting for.

 _It all begins with allies._ The challenges which lay ahead could not be handled alone. _I will need the registry for the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild, we will have our soldiers up the training to local militias and regiments to better defend their lands against bandits, Bianca’s new planting technology must be tested before more are produced, and I must speak to Dagna about creating joint programs between dwarves who wish to study artifice and those mages remaining within the Inquisition._

Command straightened; her hands resting firmly on the table.

_Yes._

Her mouth pulled into a smile. A knock sounded at the door, and Command watched as the red haired image of Eirwen Lavellan brushed a few tendrils back behind one ear.

It was time to begin.

 

***

 

Solas exited the eluvian into an empty street, bare feet on polished stone and standing between tall white walls. Red flowers bloomed off of trailing vines that hung down from the terraced gardens overhead. Hands resting behind his back, he stared up at a clear blue sky. Cloudless except for the white square towers of Norba and swirling mutlicolored dragons made from streams of paper. Dazzling white sparks exploded above his head. By the stench, they were born not from magic but powder. Behind him, the portal shut with a snap. The eluvian itself disappeared back into a tall wall of cream colored plaster and marble.

Eirwen was somewhere in this mess of stone buildings and mortal filth.

A small smile curved the corner of his mouth and he tugged his robes straight, slouching slightly with head and chin jutting forward, feet slightly too close together so he might shuffle instead of stride. A simple lifetime of practice allowed him to assume the role of a slave with ease. Adjustments in posture changed what others perceived, who they saw in front of them, and in a culture such as Tevinter where elves were routinely enslaved many did not look closely for discrepancies. _The ease by which this is accomplished has begun to change._ There were differences, perhaps not so subtle, in build between the People and modern elves.

They blended well enough. However, it was only when no one questioned a straighter back, an extra few inches, or a fuller frame born of proper nutrition. A back which did not stoop in the same manner, no intrinsic need to hunch or hide as the world passed them by. He knew what Tan and the others said. In saying his goodbyes, in informing the Inquisitor of his plans, he made the process of completing their plans more difficult than necessary. Be it arrogance, stupidity, or his own pride, his refusal to kill the woman he loved. To not stand by to allow the Anchor to finish devouring her created new problems for his agents across Thedas and for himself.

Solas sighed.

He could hardly fault their logic, it would have been the intelligent play. _Yet, I am not known lately for smart decisions._ He had absolved himself by saying the concern was unnecessary. These primitive children all too simple, unable to counteract his plans even if they knew the truth. His visit had been part cruelty as there was no way for the likes of Eirwen and her Inquisition to overcome him alone.

Yet, deep in his mind and in those of his closest followers, the worries remained. While many plans had gone off without a hitch, he remained waylaid by missteps and clouded judgement. Even this, visiting Norba today, was yet another mistake. The overzealous action of one obsessed, neither careful nor methodical. A path filled with unnecessary risk, one a much younger self might have laughed at. To come this far and risk so much for a woman who’d made it excessively clear she wanted nothing more to do with him. _Who may require my assistance regardless._ So, he would continue inserting himself among the enemy where he did not belong. It was no deep cover mission with an easily devisable exit strategy, he could go only as himself in an attempt to earnestly seek out the truth.

Cole’s presence rested against his back, traveling with him. Ready to be his second set of eyes and see through the shadows which hid away the cracks. Perhaps, a fresh pair of eyes would aid him in noticing the clues he’d been missing. Eirwen wanted him to look elsewhere, to focus on his plans to the exclusion of all else. An act proving far more difficult than he’d expected and, perhaps, was more dangerous than anticipated.

“ _He_ loves her,” Cole murmured, thoughtfully, coming around the side. “‘She is so beautiful.’ Wandering, wishing, he studies the land wondering, ‘how do I prove myself?’”

Solas glanced at his friend, but Cole wasn’t watching him.

Instead, the young spirit’s glassy yellow eyes were fixed on another youth standing at the far end of the alley. The boy was browsing before a stand, a small brown stand filled with sparkling objects. Tiny gemstones, or perhaps normal stones, hung on simple leather straps and twined thread. He was browsing through bracelets and necklaces, holding them up to the light. There were other stands too, standing side by side. The boy was visible, but others could be heard. Shopkeepers hocking their wares, sharp voices of buyers whittling away at the prices.

 _A marketplace_ , Solas realized. Nothing fancy as they were not in an exceptionally rich portion of the city, but the boy’s clothes were finely crafted. “Ah,” he nodded. “This boy wishes to buy his lover a gift.”

“He wishes her to know he thinks of her.” Cole cocked his head. “So she might think of him, but simple. He doesn’t want her in trouble.” He blinked, slowly. “Why would a gift give her trouble, Solas?”

“Perhaps,” he said gently, “the one he loves is not in a position to freely receive gifts or affections.”

“She waits in the courtyard, stained hands clutch dirty skirts. Her nails caked with mud. She’s been in the barn again, mucking out the stables. Cook always sends her when she’s in trouble. ‘The Mistress has no use for serving girls with wandering eyes!’ He’s so handsome though, her eyes can’t help it. What will he think of her? Mud covered and smelling like the pig’s slop, acidic piss and raw stench of rotting vegetables. He makes promises she doesn’t need.”

Solas smiled. “I see.” His narrowed. Was Cole preoccupied with romance due to him? Or, did he have questions of his own? _It is worth asking._ Though the act itself felt perilous. As a pure spirit Cole might emphasize strong attachment to a mortal with similarly suited interests, but rarely did Compassion do so for any length of time. There was always another in need, another requiring his attention. Solas’ stomach clenched. If one such human remained on his mind then... _Cole, too, might be changing._ “Do you have someone you wish to think of you, Cole?”

Cole’s head tilted. “She has…” he trailed off, “someone else. Someone with kind, strong arms. She is happy.” He glanced at Solas with eyes wide. “I helped.”

Again, Solas nodded. _We are both uniquely incapable of pursuing our heart’s desires._ “I wonder if I’d have done the same.”

He liked to think he would. Politely step aside and allow another to pursue her, one more capable of ensuring the happiness he was incapable of providing. _Another of this world._ His hands rested against his lower back and, for a moment, he returned to his usual posture. His head tilted, watching the boy sort through the jewelry. If he were watching another buy a gift for Eirwen, he would stand aside.

Solas frowned.

_I would._

Wouldn’t he?

 _In another age,_ the thought snuck back into his mind. When he was a much younger elf, much more full of himself and free of consequence, he might have diverted the lad to another. Purely as a measure of precaution. When his own selfish desires reigned paramount.

Solas sighed. Would or wouldn’t, it changed nothing. He still had to find her, after all her insistence that he leave her alone. He had to see what she was planning, to understand, and eventually apologize for his previous behavior. _Even when fool that I am, I should leave it be._ It served him little and in the end only caused more pain, more suffering. Holding on when he should be letting go. After all, there was no way for them to be together. He’d hoped walking away would make it easier, yet it hadn’t. _Perhaps I alone am incapable of admitting it is over._

Solas turned his eyes skyward to where silver fire burst overhead. Trailing thin lines of black clouds winding between the rooftops and terraced gardens. “I suppose we ought to begin, Cole.”

Cole nodded. “Yes.”

“Remember, there is no need to approach,” he cautioned as they began to walk. “We are here to observe.”

“Yes.” Again, the spirit boy nodded with a swift jerk of his chin.

Solas turned his eyes away from the boy browsing and to the gathering crowd; stepping into another courtyard then another alley until they reached a small street. Here, a crowd climbed toward a distant coliseum atop the hill.

 _Norba’s great slave market._ In the warm blue sky, he studied the distant black dots of ravens circling. That was where Eirwen would be. His eyes narrowed, gut twisting. Even at this distance, he could sense the dark, shadowy energy lurking. These were not like Leliana’s ravens, this murky cloud not born of the Inquisition. No, something was terribly off about these birds. His eyes narrowed. _It seems I am not the only one watching._

“They’re not birds,” Cole said simply.

“No,” he agreed softly. “They are not.”

 _Dirthamen’s followers or Falon’din’s? Current or former?_ Either way, they were survivors from the fall of Arlathan. Ones who did not succumb to uthenera, who survived all these long years. _They must be._

He wondered. What had brought them out of hiding? _What interest have they in Tevinter? One of their brothers or sisters being captured by slavers seemed unlikely. Perhaps a child or some other progeny._ No, they were not known for their loyalty and it would not have brought forth the entire flock. Of all elvhen devotees, Dirthamen’s might very well be among the least diminished due to their proclivities toward mortal sacrifice and blood magic.

Well, while I can handle them, I’d certainly like to avoid unnecessary conflict. Solas swallowed. “Cole, can you sense why they’ve come?”

His friend shook his head. “I am sorry. I cannot feel them, Solas.” Then, it tilted as his eyes scanned the sky. “Their minds are dark.”

Solas’ shoulders slumped as he climbed up the hill, cobblestones warming his feet. It was the answer he expected, but that did not make it comforting. _If their loyalty to Dirthamen has clung on this long then they are beyond helping._ His hands tucked in front of him, rather than being held behind his back, and he kept his gaze carefully low as he climbed. He did not tug at the thin golden strand wrapped around his throat, nor the thin tan robes clinging about his arms and legs. The clothing of a slave was not meant to be comfortable.

_I cannot allow it to distract me._

He had to keep his eyes and mind open, his senses alert. Eirwen must be located, if only because observing her and tracking her movements had become necessary. If she did not want him to look, then he must.

“You miss her.”

Solas sighed. “Yes,” he agreed. “There is nothing to be done on that count.”

“You could tell her,” Cole said. His pace increased and he came closer, holding steady at Solas’ side instead of darting ahead.

“I did, Cole.” It was a half-truth, he’d told her he loved her. _Never that you long to see her, never that you need her._ Except, he did not. Need was far too strong a word for it. _Want, perhaps. Need is a stretch._ He ground his molars together. “My feelings are not why I left.”

“No,” Cole agreed. “They’re why you keep coming back.”

Solas paused, surprised. Shoved forward again before he could reply by a meaty hand belonging to a large human merchant.

“Outta the way, rabbit!”

Politely, Solas slid to the side and allowed him to pass. His eyes tracked the man, then moved to the gaggle dragged along in his wake. An entire string, he realized, with hands bound and feet hobbled. Elves, humans, even a few dwarves all tethered together. Lash cracked behind them to keep the train moving. A few glanced at him with wide hopeless eyes as the merchant dragged them forward, but most followed with downcast eyes. Their gaunt faces, bony bodies, and greasy unwashed hair all showing signs of malnutrition, mistreatment. Their clothing in tatters, similarly grease spattered and stained. It marked them all as being from many different countries, Antiva, Nevarra, Rivain, Orlais, and a few unrecognizable patterns from the Free Marches. Some had dark brown skin with lighter hair, some near black and theirs worn in tight curls cut close to the scalp, some were almost snow white with ruddy cheeks and pale blonde hair. The elves were of similar varying descent, white to brown and even a few deep black.

His lips pressed into a thin line. _Wearing whatever garments they were caught in._ _Was it for weeks?_ He wondered. _Or months?_ Mouth twisting, Solas looked away. The stench failed to invade his nostrils, due only to the small bags placed around each neck. Each burned with a faint magical aura. _Meant to ward away the smell._ This merchant obviously cared little for the perceived quality of his “stock”. He’d seen similar scenes often enough for his gut not to wrench, though they were far more commonplace here in Tevinter than they had been in Arlathan.

The Elvhen readily made slaves of themselves. Forced servitude and the worst punishments saved only for those who dared to defy the “natural order”. _Many all too eager to give up control of their own lives._ The same among the Chantry or the Qunari, where one was a slave to their beliefs. Giving over their control and ability to decide their own lives, accepting their slave status, and worshipping at the altar of those no greater than themselves. It had not been the bitterly enforced servitude of Tevinter, where the body rather than the mind was caged.

The distant circling ravens still chose slavery rather than freedom, still embraced the lies of those that claimed to be gods. Where if the merchant’s slaves bonds were cut, they would likely race for it.

Solas sighed. His eyes dropped, head hanging lower as he swung into a slouch. His feet scuffed the stones, trying to feel more like he’d embraced a persona than defeat. _My own people..._ what good was he if he could right his mistakes? Could not restore them? _I will save them._ The plan was in motion. _I’ve only to follow it._

Slowly, he continued his path toward the arena.

_Were it not so difficult to follow._

A sigh escaped him as he climbed and watched small boys dart past him in their red and white linens. Girls walked quickly in silk robes. Solas kept his eyes down, focused on the ground. In polite company, the slave did not look up and did not meet the eyes of his… he swallowed, _betters_.

The word carried an ironic twist as he let his gait slow to quick short steps. To meet the eyes of another in Tevinter was a matter for equals, one did not dare meet the gaze of a Magister if they were not one beholden to similar rank. This tradition resonated through the lower classes as they sought to imitate it. He’d noticed even a few slaves following the practice in their alcoves, their eyes darting low as they passed a superior or daring to meet that of a friend. He’d caught a few shy smiles here and there. Young lovers destined to be torn apart, testing the limits of their newfound self-enforced equality. _There is a careful structure in the movements of the eyes._ While there was a tumult of slaves from all over Thedas present within the Empire, the wrong gesture or look could still result in unnecessarily aroused suspicion.

Solas paused, then he sighed. It was not so different here and now as it had been long ago when similar streets were filled with elves. When young lovers had also been kept apart by rank, social position, and slavery. When whispered prayers filled his ears, begging for solutions to problems easily solved. They hardly interested him and he’d answered them rarely, only when he’d an ironic twist in mind.

Yet now, in his mind’s wandering, he sometimes wished to lift up his own similarly foolish prayers. Even knowing that they, like so many others, would fall on deaf ears.

His hand wrapped around Eirwen’s wrist, thrusting it into the roaring yellow-green rift. _Quickly! Before more come through!_

His own voice hoarse in his ears. His hunched back similar to the position he took now, keeping his head low and humble, only to be surprised when she matched his posture. Warm blue eyes studying him and her hand, at once both incredulous and curious. _And, perhaps, more than a little terrified._ Thrust suddenly into a new world with new rules, on the edge of changes. Nearly dead, then awakened in a nightmare.

And he?

_I am Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live._

Smug rather than sympathetic. More pleased with his success at ensuring her survival, high again on his theory proven correct, that the Mark would function for a mortal. That through her, he could correct his error.

Solas sighed as the crowd pressed in around him. Let it drive him up the hill. Together, he and Cole climbed with them. He could never allow himself to be too comfortable, could never let his senses stop reaching for the elven woman he’d walked away from. He could never forget why he was here.

Nor did he want to.

Tevinter was monstrous and only in its worst aspects did it remind him of the home he’d destroyed.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken me waaaay longer to put together than I wanted or expected. I cannot say when the next chapter will come because the time has come to think about middles and middles are death. Solas is... I dunno. He's such a frustrating character. Everyone talks about him like he's a dog but, for me, he's a cat. He's always choosing to go the direction I don't want him to. He's always strutting off in the wrong direction. When I'm ready to go one way, he goes the other.
> 
> It goes round and round with this. I'd appreciate his impeccable timing, if it wasn't the timing of a tragic character ready to throw everything off the tracks. He was supposed to stay away, but he shows up. Everything gets reworked. I love you buddy, but you gotta make some decisions here.
> 
> Please? Maybe?
> 
> Just remember, no decision eventually is the same as a decision.
> 
> This is also a long chapter. I'm sorry. I still hope you enjoyed it!


	14. Chapter 14

Dirthamen stood on the hill, one hand resting on his hip, studying distant cream and white walls. The rooftops dotted with golden domes, twining towers, and square symmetrical rectangles topped with another set of golden spears. One did not require sharp eyes to see the large, carved silver dragons coiling about a great marble gate that denoted the western entrance into the city. Their eyes shining with emeralds and glimmers of green magefire. Nor could they miss the startling lack of a protective outer ring. No raised stone to protect the city walls. There was no magic either. While magic was practiced within Norba, his senses marked no spells larger than cast by a few and no mages of significant power capable of casting their protections for so large an area.

The city itself was enshrined by a lush tropical forest of trees with great green fronds and thick, rubbery trunks. Protected by the emerald leaves on the west and a small inlet sea to the east, it tucked itself against a range of small, sloping mountains. These mountains were no rough, jagged things. They rolled pleasantly before the eye. Elgar’nan’s invention, he remembered. His father had a love for taming the Earth’s mountains, reforming them with more pleasant visuals. A landscape now viewed by those around it as a natural invention, curated by magic. He remembered thousands of devoted worshipers swarming across them when they were born from grey stone. Tiny, black dots sanded down wild peaks like ants swarming a rotting carcass in the sun.

Dirthamen had stood here then as he did now, watched as he did now. Except the bowl in his hand had been formed of silver, formed by magic in the fires of June’s forges, and filled with a warm spring wine. Sitting without a care in robes of finely spun black silk, tips of his ears weighed down by dangling silver chains and tiny tear shaped rubies.

Now, he held cold porridge abandoned at a small hearth in a crude bowl cast from clay. Instead of silk, he wore a fine linen shirt in black, open at the chest and soft breeches lifted from a traveling merchant’s clothesline. His feet protected by ill-fitting boots which pinched his toes as the grass warmed his soles. Instead of tied back in elaborate braids, his hair hung loosely down his shoulders wild and unkempt.

He watched a city now rather than a garden cultivated by Elgar’nan to delight his wife; filled with petty mages of no true power and slaves carted in by wagons and ship. The very same displayed their catches around the city on round floating discs meant as a show of power, looking to attract the eye and coin purse. Children played in robes from silk to poorly crafted linen on stone streets beneath hanging green gardens which covered the flat rooftops. Women hung their wash between windows, allowing a sea breeze to perform their work. The merchants sold mundane wears, clay pottery, carved oiled wood, ceramics, fine silks, linen, jewelry forged from rope, polished stone, strung beads of obsidian and turquoise, with some silver and gold. Herbs, poultices, and potions mixed without the aid of magic. Great arches raised from ancient stone not long after Arlathan’s fall funneled water from the great river pouring in from the mountains.

The magic within the city served as drops disturbing the surface of a pond. It came with no raging torrent of power, no boiling in the underbelly, no writhing volcano. No vast bubble insulated it from either enemies or weather. No magic purified the waters, slaves carried away the waste, and the streets were preserved by hands. This was not a city swept by rain, nor one which summoned the clouds. It was filled with over two thousand flickering sparks, two to the ten thousand hollow shadows blotting out their light.

Dirthamen nearly shook his head. Tiny sparks could combine into a wildfire in time if they worked together, but these seemed interested only in petty power plays. They carved small mountains from the crap of their masses, piling their shit high and plating it in gold. He sniffed, wrinkling his upper lip while the corner turned to a faint smile. _They could rival the days of old, if only they would work together._

It was possible, he supposed, but those with power guarded it jealously. It mattered little if their kingdom was a glorious golden palace or a straw hovel packed with dug and set upon a trash heap, they protected it fiercely all the same. _Allow none to enter, share no power, lest your servant take it and crown himself your master._ The way of the world both old and new.

The clever man divided his enemies, he offered them small kingdoms and let them fall one upon the other. Whether it was gold, land, or power over man, they were blinded to the true power. The clever man claimed the prize those without wisdom could not see. If his men were greedy, then he gave them gold and took fertile land. A leader garnered more by offering those followers who desired land to farm, by claiming their produce, feeding his people, and lining his own pockets. What was taken in the beginning found itself eventually repaid tenfold. Yet in the end, Dirthamen knew, the most valuable commodity of all proved itself to be loyalty.

 _Betrayal exists in the hearts of all from the greatest minister to the lowest slave. One cannot expect loyalty as their due, but a gift given freely when one proves worthy. The merchant knows the value of a repeat customer. Leadership and loyalty are the same, there is always another who offers a similar product with similar conditions._ Like the best merchants who managed their affairs expertly, the best leaders were irreplaceable due to what they provided. _The best only become so when given room to grow, when they are in possession of a drive to make themselves great._

Today, he suspected, was another test. One where greatness was again offered up, waiting to be seized by a willing hand. Where those already touched came to usher another into their number and debate their merits. The individual defined their greatness, but the taking another into the Evanuris was a choice only those of their ancient order could make.

Dirthamen studied the city with a smile. Bowl in hand, he waited until a shadow formed from glancing sunlight on a nearby fern lengthened, stretched into the body of an elven woman. Their first conclave, the Arlathvhen’shem’a’din of survivors and betrayers, was about to begin.

The shadow rose out of the ground, lithe and quick. Stretching out long fingers as the shadows surrounding it faded, a woman stepped forth. Shoulders donned with raven feathers, her body bound tightly in a leather dress, and her hair bound in long horns shaped like a dragon’s crest.

“Mother,” he said, smiling amiably. Tilting back his bowl, he swallowed a mouthful of ground porridge. He inhaled deeply. “I see your spirit bears the unmistakable aroma of the shemlen.”

“You know as well as I, boy,” Mythal replied. “One does what one must.”

 _Still a boy after all this time._ Dirthamen chuckled. “Your will to survive is second to none.”

He earned a rough laugh. “I did not claw my way through the ages to see my work undone by fools.” Golden eyes glittered beneath an iron crown. “I expect the same from you, if Elgar’nan taught you well.”

Dirthamen raised his brows, his smile slight as he inclined his chin and offered her a small bow. One never could argue with their mother, even a mother who had left her first children behind to their father’s tender care. He rolled a portion of his meal into his mouth, feeling the cooling slop slide down his throat. His eyes returned to the city, then above it to the ravens darting between paper dragons.

He had not expected so many to answer his call. Certainly not so quickly. Yet he found their minds stretching out to his, their hearts clear and filled with purpose. Ready to return as his Eyes and Ears, offering up their knowledge gained surviving a millennia in this strange world. One hundred scattered throughout the white and cream city called Norba. There were others, slower in returning but no less ready, and he’d not yet had a chance to wake his warriors still slumbering in sweet grasp of uthenera. They remained in the frozen wastes atop the world. _I thought perhaps only a handful, but many of our people have survived._ His smile widened. What lived could be restored. They did not need death in order to thrive.

Dirthamen glanced at her. “Do you recall our war with the Sylvani, Mother? The spirits and elves who worshipped the Earth within their fortresses of stone, imbuing the heart of the forest into monsters grown from wood and flesh?”

“I recall,” He felt her smile, sharp as a blade’s edge, “when you and Falon’din first learned the ache of hunger in your bellies.”

“It was an extraordinary day,” he replied, eyes narrowing. “To learn of such a taste in a camp of fifty men and women as they fell one upon the other, howling for their supper.” He chuckled, swallowing another mouthful of porridge. “I see why some turn to gluttony.”

Mythal snorted. “It was never you I need worry over when it came to self-control.”

Wiping his mouth calmly with the back of his hand. “I hardly recall you worrying at all.” He grinned, flashing his white teeth. “Not over me.”

“Do not be tiresome,” Mythal replied. “We are both of us far too ancient. It is the father’s prerogative to raise his sons in his understanding of the world.”

His eyes returned to the city. “And a mother’s to her daughters.”

She cackled. “Well said, my boy.”

“Bringing us to the interminable question at the heart of our current acquaintance,” his eyes narrowed on the ravens, ducking and wheeling in the clear blue sky, “mothers and daughters.”

The shadows rippled. “You believe the girl-child I sent into your den is my daughter?”

“You sent two,” he replied. “The shemlen female that has taken up her role as your High Priestess and the desperate young woman with a hole inside her heart.” He smiled. “One born bodily through your shemlen host and one claimed in spirit. Both unlucky in their own way.” A fire burst into the sky, blasts of light directed by magic. It was not an attack, but the carefully marked beginning of a celebration. “The one in body is not yours.”

Another laugh echoed across the hill, sloping down toward the valley. “Do you think so?”

“You know as well as I that among the people it is not a question of blood or if one has been carried within the body,” Dirthamen said. “When the spirit of the child cries out for aid, it is the corresponding parent who answers.” He spread his hands. “Thus is their lineage claimed as the earth and sky welcomes them. Your human child lacks such a mark upon her spirit.”

“She declined it,” Mythal replied. “As was her right. The other is no daughter. She does her people proud, perhaps, but she remains a useful tool waiting for her sacrifice.”

“Lambs may grow into sheep to be sheared rather than meat for the slaughter,” he said mildly. “A gift which continues in its gifts is greater in value than even the tenderest meat to fill the stomach. Besides, this one seems more like to seek out sacrifice rather than wait peaceably. The spirited adventurer so often dies before reaching its potential.” His eyes flicked to her. “You may be starving, shell and shadow of what you once were but I know you, Mother. You only let go of a tool that no longer serves a use, and you choose only the path which leads to greater gain.”

“Gain is subjective, dependent entirely upon the heart’s desires.”

He smiled. “Yet one’s wants always reveal it.” He dipped his fingers into the bowl then flicked them in the direction of Norba. “What I might consider treasure, another may discard.”

Mythal chuckled. “You believe this girl to be abandoned?”

“I believe there is confusion,” Dirthamen said.

A single white eyebrow arched. “Indeed. I suppose it is that confusion you wish to exploit.”

He dipped his fingertips in again. “Merely a desire to expand upon it.”

“I see the girl has captured your imagination.”

“Would you send her to me otherwise?” More remnants of white porridge spattered the waving grass. “If you did not expect this outcome, then you’d not have followed it.”

“Predictable as a clear day in a summer sky,” Mythal replied. “I knew the effects of a strong willed, free spirited child on you.”

“Not a child, a woman come of age. Born with the right to choose both path and patron.”

“You speak as if she were one of us.”

“They are us,” he replied calmly. “Different, perhaps, less but still linked.”

“And lacking in soul.”

“Only according to some,” Dirthamen said. “Regardless, their voice is required at this table.”

“And who will speak for them? Even if we could get them to agree on a single candidate? Are we to assign one and would they be strong enough to pass the trials even by some miracle all these disparate clans marched in a single line?”

“I’d say fate has already determined its choice.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “We need only recognize the signs before us.”

“I see.” Mythal snorted. “What of Fen’Harel who already moves to restore what was?”

“He has chosen his course.” Dirthamen chuckled, mouth quirking wryly. “I must wish him well.”

“Do you not also desire restoration?” Her tone weaseled from between her lips and Dirthamen imagined a snake slithering across the ground. Mythal often asked questions she knew the answer to. Whatever he said served only as confirmation for what she suspected. “A return to the world we lost?”

“And see you revenge yourself upon me?” He laughed. “No, Mother. I do not look to the past.” Dirthamen’s eyes swept distant walls. “Instead, I shall chase the sun as it crosses the sky and attempt to ambush the twin moons from their beds. If these are the People of Tomorrow then it is not my place to decide their fate.” His eyes returned to Mythal, meeting an impassive golden gaze. “Rather, I shall aid them in determining it.”

“Your heart is remains soft, boy. Thinking still with that organ between your legs rather than that betwixt your ears. All logic undone by passion.”

Dirthamen snorted. “It has been many an age since I was unmanned by you, Mother.”

She let out another bark of coarse laughter, “You did orchestrate my murder. I suppose I must afford you some small consideration. If you wish to sacrifice your treasures for a doll with which to play dress up then who am I to argue?”

Eyes narrowing, Dirthamen held his tongue. When Mythal moved on a rant, it was best to let her speak. She could deride what his desires all she liked. In the end, it made no difference.

“A child who has lost much, who suffers much, whose potential has been denied, ignored and overlooked by those ignorant, careless, or condescending. They lure you well.”

His eyes returned to the cream city walls, exchanging them in his mind’s eye for towering spirals of gleaming green glass. “You describe me as if I were June.”

“June preferred his toys to be other than flesh and blood.” Her eyes hardened. “Sulevin and Suledin only ever had a fascination for the People themselves, the workings of minds and spirits. Elgar’nan’s trusted generals and confidants. Where Falon’din enjoyed breaking and binding, you are drawn to what has been broken. Shall you always stand in his shadow, I wonder, repairing the messes left in his wake?”

He sighed. “Time is short in this world, Mother. Shall we bargain?”

“And here I’d not yet agreed”

“You will, Mother,” Dirthamen said.

“Are you so sure, dear boy? So aged a dance partner am I, perhaps I’ve forgotten how.”

“You want what our yappy dog was too thoughtless, frightened, or ignorant to seek out.” He glanced at her. “The heart and soul of the Elvhen. Power enough to raise a new Evanuri four times over. With it, you’d no need for these petty games and power plays. No need for disappointing allies. You could revenge yourself upon us all.”

Her white brows rose. “The lifeblood of the People, presumed lost and plundered.”

“It has been fed well over these many centuries by treasure hunters and fools.” He spread his hands. “They were free for any to take, provided they knew where to look.”

She snorted. “Protected by traps built to devour any and all who sought the power they contained.”

“No gift comes entirely without cost,” Dirthamen replied. “Will you tell Fen’Harel that all this flailing has been unnecessary?”

“My Dread Wolf is a talented lad, but he’d not pass your tests. I suspect they require a certain mental flexibility, one he’s sorely lacked of late.”

“More’s the pity that he did not try.” Dirthamen’s smile widened as he studied the distant city. “More’s the pity you were wise enough not to.”

“And let you eliminate two enemies in a single stroke? I’d not make it so easy.”

“There is a way to bypass them entirely.” Holding out the bowl, he turned it over and let the remainder of the contents spill out onto the ground. Slop splashed in a small white circle, milk drizzling out onto the warm grass. “I could give the elgar’arla to you.”

“I believe the term you are seeking is ‘return them’. Beyond the stolen lives of the People, I’ve no doubt you and Falon’din cannibalized many parts of myself when your magics wrent me to pieces.”

Dirthamen shrugged. “Elgar’nan has a mighty appetite.”

Mythal laughed. “Falon’din and Andruil both nursed one greater, _Sulevin_.”

“And you seek only that which has been denied you?” He raised a brow. “Come Mother, Sylaise and Fen’Harel worshiped at the altar of your beneficence. I however know you are not so altruistic.”

Mythal turned her head and sniffed. “Always you doubt a mother’s love for her children.”

“Had the mother shown me love, perhaps I might be more forthcoming.”

She sighed. “What is it you want?”

“Relinquish your claim on this apprentice of yours.”

“So you might steal her away?”

Dirthamen tilted his head. “Why not? Have you greater plans for her?”

“Well, well,” she chuckled softly, “you believe she might replace Ghilan’nain, June, Andruil, or perhaps even me?” Mythal shook her head. “The lass is a quick study, I’ll grant you, but still struggles with even the most basic concepts. Without the required years, our ways shall remain well outside her reach.”

In the distant city, the colored sparks shooting into the sky died away. Dirthamen’s eyes narrowed, corner of his mouth twitching. The show he’d come for would begin soon. “All I ask is a chance to determine so for myself.”

“Do you not trust your mother?” She laughed. “You truly are a fool, Sulevin.”

“Foolish or not, what I choose to do with her will be of my own design,” he replied. “I want it without your interference.”

“Hmm,” she clucked her tongue. “I suppose it might be possible. Yet, for whatever grandeur of our past she lacks, this girl is a useful tool. Despite her youth, a reckless nature combined with a curious mind pushes her skills beyond mages of greater wisdom and talent, leading to many clever inventions. If nurtured properly she may well rise to a level that is passably mediocre. So, I must ask, what will you give me in return for yielding up so great a prize?”

He held up two fingers.

“Two?” Mythal let out a bark of laughter. “I am not so cheap, my boy.”

“You mistake the power collected,” he replied. “These bear the spirits of all who fell during Harel S’dael Vhen’alas and all who hunted them in the days after. Two foci would place you at twice your strength before the Breaking.”

“Tempting,” Mythal murmured. “Yes, quite tempting. Yet still too low, the girl has a certain irreplaceable value. She carries the burgeoning spirit of this world’s People, our bargain is one of allies not servants. As such, you’ll not keep her from our prior arrangements. Such free spirits can never be bound to a single hearth.”

“I’ve no intention of it.” He shrugged. “I am hardly a jailor, Mother.”

“I told you once that which will be cannot be undone, for the soul itself chooses. This one decided her path long ago, before you or I or even Fen’Harel entered her fate’s design.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “Yet, so long as we live, both the heart and spirit can change.”

Mythal chuckled, “always you attempt the impossible.”

“And many a time succeeded where others failed.”

“You remain a fool then, but a determined one.” She sighed. “Very well, boy, make it three and we shall have our agreement.”

He nodded, waving a single hand. “They are yours.” Magic flickered in the air, forming small signs of fire, and then each plunged into the shadow’s forehead. One after the other, until all were inside her. “The last I shall keep to use as I see fit.”

She inclined her head. “As expected.” Then, her head lifted, and she turned her gaze back to the city. “This agreement ours shall take effect following today’s events, I fear I have one prior which requires my aid.” The corner of her mouth twisted into a smile. “A promise I must keep.”

Mythal’s shadow lifted on the wind, blowing away into long trails of black smoke and rose toward the city’s glittering gold spires. It coiled, rising higher and higher. Until at last, in a twirling ribbon of purple and black reaching for the overhead sun, it vanished.

Dirthamen nodded, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back on one leg. The pants were ill-fitting, slightly too tight in how they cut across his thighs. The boots pinched his toes. A cooling breeze carried through the vines and tropical trees lifted goosepimples on his skin. Faint smile curved his lips as he allowed his consciousness to wander.

A part always remained with him, aware of the world, and ready to defend himself. The Renan’s presence rarely passed beyond his consciousness’ edge. She walked the streets in a blue linen dress, hair drawn back in a simple ponytail. Climbing toward the arena, the Renan made her way up the hill nearest the eastern inlet and the sea. The area situated nearest, he assumed, both the market district and the docks. After they were bought and sold, the goods brought by ship moved westward.

His mind stretched out, brushing across a raven perched atop a thin line of rope strung between two squat buildings.

It jerked in surprise, then its thoughts warmed.

_Belena, Dirthamen! Elvhen mirthadra ma elgar._

He’d assumed there would be some welcome him, but he was grateful that they still honored his spirit and his name. A slight smile curved his mouth. More fortune for him, he knew this voice. _Hail, Elath of the Melanada Vunin, how fare you?_

He felt the brief, bright red flush of pleasure in the opposite mind.

 _Well!_ Elath blurted. _Well now that you are with us!_

Warmth burrowed its way through his stomach, an unfamiliar sensation. Gratitude, he decided. Born from surprise. He had not expected to be so warmly received, nor with such immediate intimacy. After so much had changed, he expected The People to be more wary. For others to have taken their place among those few survivors. When the sky closed and stole their world with it. _What became of you in the days after Tarasyl Tel’as._

_We scattered in the Breaking when the People fell upon each other. Ran and hid within the deep woods, cleaving to the old ways while the others lost their souls. We feared the Evanuris would not come again, but the strength of Dirthamen sustained us. Though many fled into in uthenera in their sorrow, and many of our children and our children’s children have since ceased to be. Melana ma ena, vir emma enasal._

_As am I, falon._ He lifted his face toward the sky and the warm rays settling upon his skin.

 _Fen’Harel is within the city, walking in his guise as a wandering traveler. He pretends he is a slave, but his back is too straight and he walks with pride._ Elath’s voice shared an enmity which surprised Dirthamen.

_Is he within your view?_

_Nae, Dirthamen, but Elvarel has seen him. It is certain The Wolf stalks these streets._

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He knew he ought to be surprised by his own lack of it. After traversing the images within the Renan’s mind, he had suspected that if he followed her then Fen’Harel would appear. Moving with the same manner in which a dog ghosted after his master’s footsteps, or the hound tracked the bitch in heat. Fen’Harel might always be found near that which he restricted himself from. The harder he denied his wants, the more firmly he clung.

Fen’Harel’s insistence on walking apart had always been his greatest weakness, those he gathered to him shared his cause. Followed him because they perceived him as the lesser of two evils, preferable if not perfect. No cult of personality worshiped at his altar and he would have none. His coalition bound itself together on goal alone. Loyalty to a cause was different than that to the individual, the cause lived on when the individual died and fractured when they were supplanted. Yet, the cause took a different shape in the minds of all. Loyalty to an individual was far more certain. Causes lead to a lonely existence, one filled not with friendship or brotherhood but those of a similar mind. To be feared and respected was not to be beloved nor accepted. The yapping dog chose the former, discarded the latter as unnecessary, and wondered how it was he spent his days alone.

And yet, Dirthamen sighed, causes always found fertile soil in minds dissatisfied.

_There must have been detractors among you. What of them?_

_Silenced, Great One. We dared not risk your wrath by those who spoke for him alerting the Dread Wolf._

Dirthamen paused. Their actions were not unexpected, regretful perhaps but necessary. No doubt more survivors could not afford to be lost, but great damage could be done by betrayal. Either way, blood would be spilled. Now, later, and perhaps because it had been. Death bred only hate, head led to resentment, and resentment birthed rebellion. What Fen’Harel refused to grasp was the People desired their wants cared for, their needs secured, their bellies filled, and their children safe to grow in the warm sunlight. All other ideals came after, not before, in their hearts.

 _If we have displeased you,_ Elath murmured, _we will make amends._

Once again, he sighed. What had been done could not be undone, they exchanged one set of lives for another. Freed themselves of betrayal. Now, only the loyal remained. _Nae, Elath of the Melanada Vunin, I bear sorrow but it is only for the losses in your families._

 _Do not be, Dirthamen, their deaths purchased hope. Hope we had not known for many millennia._ A soft sigh followed and not a single note in Elath’s voice was ladened with regret. _Even to feel such after so long, even for a moment, it is a gift._

Sorrow swelled in Dirthamen’s stomach, throat thick. Nails bit into his palms, sharp enough to momentarily draw blood. He knew it should not be. At no time should the People be driven from life, clinging to the underbelly of this world’s shadow.

_Then, I accept this sacrifice. Through it, we shall birth a new day._

_In the heart’s blood of this world,_ Elath intoned, _we shall see the Unending Sun rise again._

He swallowed his reservations. There would be a time for them in the future, when the first steps were settled and plans created. _Now, I must request a favor._

_Anything, Great One._

_Might I borrow your eyes?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever to write, mostly because Mythal and Dirthamen are buttheads. No conversation between ancient beings is ever simple. That's the fun of it, but also the haaaaaaaate.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Harel S’dael Vhen’alas - Fear Which Broke the Earth  
> Belena - Many emerges! (Aka I made up a greeting.)  
> Elvhen mirthadra ma elgar - the People are honored by your spirit.  
> Melana ma ena, vir emma enasal - Now you emerge, we are filled with joyful relief.  
> The Melanada Vunin - The Eternal Day


	15. Chapter 15

Rolf met _her_ on the edge of the marketplace, the Lady in Blue and White. She wore a simple dress in blue linen common to those who worked on the docks nearby, hair bound up in a simple ponytail. She hooked a small wicker basket covered in a blue cloth over her left wrist, her shifting from one stall to the other as she browsed through the wares.

He walked calmly, unhurriedly through the crowd, and came to a stop beside her in the corner of the square. The leather strap sealed about his throat itched fiercely, magic biting into his skin. He was far from where the Magister desired him to be, but he knew also that his detour was likely to go unnoticed. Rolf had spent the early years of his slavery testing the limits of the collar, how far he could travel before closed off his airway. The handlers in Cornelia’s house had cared then when he’d been fresh. They cared less now that they believed him broken. However, the pretense of brokenness did not mean he was free. Neither he nor the Lady were not free from prying eyes, from those servants of Magister Cornelia’s that were looking for him.

He’d abandoned his morning chores to meet with her and found himself already late for his duties at the arena gates. Even so, his heart pounding, he took courage from his suspicions others like him that once belonged to the Magister were among the growing crowd. That they already received their assignments for this day. Even if Head Matron Clivia had reported him for laziness to the overseer, he had no more reason to fear.

After today, he would not be going back to the walled manor and it’s hanging gardens. He’d not feel the whip or the lash. He’d be free.

Rolf’s eyes never left the Lady. In truth, he’d never thought to trust another mage again. Yet, here he was meeting with another dressed in the garb of a lataen. Another with a way of blending herself and anyone that followed her seamlessly into a crowd. While he was in her shadow, he would not come to harm.

Swallowing harshly as he approached, he stilled his rapidly beating heart, and reminded himself, he was not meeting the Lady in Blue and White but a young elven woman. A supporter of the most recent resistance and underground to rise up within Cornelia’s territories.

To think of her as she taught him, and as the resistance had to aid in disrupting the thought weavers among Cornelia’s blood mages.

_They are surely in the crowd._

He should not be thinking of it at all, but he could not help it. His excitement built, rising higher and higher as he watched the ravens circling in the sky overhead. Building as he watched the elf’s ice-blue eyes flash in a direction not toward him, her long white hair curling about her shoulders. Sash lifted and carried by the breeze, small cleavage exposed by the dress’ scooped opening as a high fringed collar closed around her neck. Pale skin, the same color as Ostwick’s summer snows, glimmered unnaturally under the light of Tevinter’s sun.

There was a part of her that lingered in his dreams and, as her voice whispered in his ear, he learned truths that he’d never dared consider much less think. Memory of her made his heart beat quick, both from longing and no small terror.

“Rolf.” The Lady spoke without turning, as if she were aware of his presence merely from his footsteps. “I’m pleased you could make it.”

Rolf came to a stop beside her. “I wouldn’t betray you, Lady. Not ever.”

The Lady in Blue and White glanced at him, one silver eyebrow rising wryly. Then, she gestured for his left hand.

He held it out.

And she pressed a thin strip of chalk into his palm. “You remember what must be done?”

“Yes,” he replied, only very softly. His fingers clenched. Magic was the one thing in Tevinter that a slave did not dare possess, yet it was in his hand. Such a small item, harmless. He had seen the Lady work wonders with it, wonders he had witnessed with his own eyes when she offered his freedom. Wonders both smaller and greater than he had seen any Magister perform. Wonders he too could do, though he possessed no magic of his own. “It will be done as you taught.”

She smiled. “And the gem?”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “I have it,” he whispered. “Close to my heart, where they cannot see.”

Cold fingers rested against his cheek and he felt a faint pulse, the distant burn of her magic. It reminded him of cold steel, half frozen and cracked by a winter storm. “You must remember it, Rolf. Or, once activated, the portal will begin to devour your life. Something or someone must pay the price.” Chill nails crackled. “Do not let it be you. Remember the gem.”

“Yes, Lady.”

“Rolf, please, look at me.”

He met her gaze. Her eyes were like the waters of a vast river flowing beneath a sheet of ice, a light bright white-blue at first glance but darker near the center with hidden depths. They reminded him of his days as a boy in Ostwick, of his father and the river on which he’d taken him ice fishing. He remembered that more than the raiders, the slavers who had come to his village and clapped them all in chains. And he saw the deep scar over her right eye. A parting gift that she had once been given by slavers.

She closed his fingers gently around the chalk. “Do not trade one master for another.” Her other hand, the magical hand, tapped him lightly on the forehead. “We choose freedom, and we choose to accept our cages. So long as you remember you are free in here.” Then, she pointed to his chest. “And here.” She gave him a gentle smile. “No cage will ever hold you.”

“I will not fear,” he said firmly. “Not when you are with me.”

The Lady turned back to the marketplace, her eyes lifting beyond it to the arena atop the hill. Drifting lower to what Rolf suspected were the pens held beneath, where the slaves were bathed, washed, and prepared for selling. He remembered frightened nights in those pens, covered in his own excrement and packed in a tight pen with nearly thirty others. Humans, dwarves, elves, it hadn’t mattered. He remembered the eyes of the guards as they prodded him with their cudgels through the bars, laughing when he wet himself. Laughing when they knocked an already fetid meal to the floor and told him to eat it. He remembered the rough hands that sprayed him down with water, forcibly checking his parts.

He remembered it all.

The endless hours praying to the Maker and Andraste, praying for a chance at escape. Then for sweet release before he was dragged to the podium and shoved before the crowd. Finally for a decent master to buy him, for a lazy master who would not watch him, for a non-mage who would not punish him with magic. All those lonely months when the Maker abandoned him and Andraste left him to languish in slavery. When only the storied whispers of her Herald reached Tevinter, and the laughter that she would come again to see Tevinter’s evils punished. His fingers clenched tight about the chalk. He did not need the Maker any longer.

Now, Rolf had the Lady.

“I won’t always be.” Her smile widened. “And, soon, you’ll realize you don’t need me.” Her blue eyes slid to him. “You will know all you’ve ever needed was someone to believe in you.”

Rolf opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say. He knew.

He would never see her again.

The Lady lifted her chin. “Go, Rolf.”

Rolf nodded and walked into the crowd. At noon, Magister Cornelia would open this season’s the slave market. In that moment, when the first of the season’s slaves were crowded from the holding cells and into the pens, their resistance would strike.

The Magister would feel it then, Rolf knew, they would all feel it. That terrible fury which came with the Lady’s wrath. Those of Tevinter would know, and despair.

 

***

 

Eirwen watched him go. Watched the hand shoved hurriedly into his pocket, his back ramrod straight and shoulders stiff, the slight jerking of his step as he settled. The faint smile on her lips dimmed, died, and she turned away. The crowd beckoned her, the press of men and women gathering on the cobblestone road in answer to the tower bell’s chimes.

He would do well, or, at the very least, what was necessary.

_I’m only sorry that this sacrifice has to be requested at all._

Her nails sank into her palms and she reached into her pocket, pulling a navy glove free. Sliding her right hand into it, she turned away from the market, from the slaves behind bustling housewives and higher, more trusted servants. They bartered, bought, and carried off supplies in baskets or to the array of carriages and carts at the end of the square. Their lives would also change today, though she doubted it would be as irrevocable as Rolf dreamed.

Eirwen walked into the alley. On either side, the high white walls stretched toward the sky and the metal bars of the terrace gardens above. Green ivy coiling over the edge, long tendrils dropping down to sway unsteadily in the light tropical breeze. With quick steps, she crossed over sewage runoff and murky, moldy green puddles gathering between cracks in the stone.

“I suppose you enjoyed your theatrics.”

“Don’t you?” Eirwen replied.

Beside her, the shadows rippled and stretched. Formed into a lithe shape, grew tall, until it became female and elven. “Even with a frozen heart, you cannot help but be kind to them.” A rather dramatic sigh echoed over the soft whistling in the drains, the clanking pipes. Tevinter had an interesting quality in their architecture, an internal structural development usually contained to the noble elite of Fereldan and Orlais. Yet here, even the poorest merchants could rely on indoor plumbing. “How many times must I remind you, dear girl? Compassion is a virtue you cannot afford.”

“They deserve a few kind words,” Eirwen said. “They’re walking into death.”

“As their enemies do, yes.”

“And there is courage in those who choose to stand, knowing they risk everything.”

“It is easy to risk it all when one has nothing,” came the reply.

“No,” she said. “The less we have, the shorter the fall but the tighter we cling to what remains.” She didn’t look to the shadows. “You, of all people, should understand that.”

That earned her a laugh, cold, shadowed by the danger inherent in it, and amused. “Yes,” the voice said, “I shall not regret revealing myself to you.”

Eirwen smiled, but it was a distant one. “I agreed to assist you, in return for your knowledge and your advice.”

“If not my guidance.” The calm steady voice echoed in her ears, filled with the voices of countless women past. “All of which would be more easily given were I allowed inside you, for a time.”

_Me before Morrigan?_ Eirwen kept that thought very close. Whatever had happened to Flemeth and the power she acquired, she didn’t know. Mythal’s designs and schemes had not died with her. Eirwen understood that she had been dragged into the web, if she’d ever been outside of it. What Mythal truly wanted with her, she didn’t say. What she had offered was an agreement far better than the Well of Sorrows. She had control of herself, which was more than she could say for others. Mythal would transform her into her creature if she could. Even as just a fractured piece of an ancient being, she was never as powerless as she seemed. _I will not be a pawn in this game._

All she could do now was take the advice of Madame de Fer and battle for the key. To do that, she would have to take herself from piece to player. Learn what there was, utilize her knowledge, and transcend her position on the board.

_All simple in concept._ The trick came with the execution. _Mine if I’m not careful._

She would have to be, for this game was no different than any played in the halls of power across Thedas. Eirwen resisted the urge to lay her hand on her belly. There was more than her life at stake, the lives of her people, the people Mythal and Solas had abandoned, and hope for the future rested on her shoulders. _Controller or controlled._ Those were her choices. As the balance of power shifted, opportunities would open and close. She’d have to be vigilant. The Evanuris, all of them without exception, would attempt to subjugate her. Or, like Solas, they would kill her.

As it was, Mythal needed her. Just as she required Mythal’s assistance.

All things being temporal, their hodgepodge alliance would end when one or the other outlived their usefulness. _And I have the shorter shelf life._ Keeper Istimaethoriel would call her mad for believing she could outfox a goddess. _Or even simply Asha’belannar._ Stories of the ‘Woman of Many Years’ could make even an adult’s hair stand on end.

Eirwen swallowed.

_A chain can be pulled from both ends._

“I agreed to be your student,” Eirwen said. “Not your servant.”

Another laugh followed. “They are one and the same, dear girl.”

Eirwen smiled. “I suppose we’ll see.”

“Indeed we will,” Mythal replied. “Attend to your toy soldiers, then. And as you insist on fighting without invoking my aid, I shall only say, may your pursuit of justice bring you victory. I hope you shall be as swift and merciless upon your enemies as the oncoming storm.”

“As standing against a Magister would be well beneath your considerable abilities, even in your current state, I appreciate your words. I’ll carry your hopes with me into battle.”

“I am not your mother, girl.”

“Good,” Eirwen replied, tucking her wicker basket behind her back. “I've terrible luck with mothers.”

Mythal snorted. “Fight as you must. Your cause makes little difference to me.”

She vanished as Eirwen approached the end of the alley. Ahead, she could see the press of people jamming together as they marched toward the docks and the slave markets. The sun was rising toward its pinnacle and the noon mark. Magister Cornelia’s magnificent four horse carriage would be pulling through the great gates from her nearby villa, complete with her traditional honor guard totaling twenty men.

Many of the Magister’s supporters would be in the crowd, many more hoping to dig through what they generally termed as her “cast offs”. The people of Norba generally considered themselves safe, blessed by their Magister’s protection. Cornelia had her armies, her governors, her civil servants, and her petty bureaucrats, all things necessary to run a small city state beholden to a greater empire. Within her lands, her will was law. Her grip was ironclad.

She believed herself untouchable.

As she stepped out of the alley’s shadows and out into the sweltering rays of Tevinter’s tropical sun, Eirwen smiled. Cornelia would soon learn that her assumption was in error. The slave trade marked the heart of her control over the region and there was no better place to strike a tyrant.

Slowly, she entered into step with the traveling merchants. Listened to the drums pounding atop the market walls. It sang its own call to arms. Eirwen flexed the stiffer fingers of her left hand, her projection, and allowed the magic to wind down through imagined veins, bone, flesh, and sinew. An age of new beginnings was coming, borne on the winds of change.

Cornelia would witness it today.

_Change._

Eirwen’s eyes narrowed. Again, her spirit fingers flexed. Clenched into a fist.

_The Magister will be made to understand, even if she cannot see._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're lucky, I'm pretty much adding a bunch of the chapters today. I caught up with where I'd written ahead to and that brings us much closer to the confrontation in Norba. Aka: the proving ground has begun.
> 
> I mean, I should probably hold off so I update at what seems like a more steady pace. But that's boring. Who wants that? LET'S JUMP AHEAD!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed both the last chapter and this one. This one is blessedly shorter, unlike Dirth and Mythal who like to go on and on and on.


	16. Chapter 16

Rolf pushed his way through the crowd and up the great channel through which the captives would be driven into the arena. Hot sand burned through the soles in his sandals as he threw his thin red scarf marking him as staff over one shoulder. He did not raise his eyes to those seating themselves in the coliseum above. The many thousands of buyers come from across Tevinter to purchase this season’s offerings. He recognized the high curving headdresses of Magisters, the faded white linens of older servants, the red striped garments of the merchants.

Despite his misgivings toward the Maker, Rolf wished that Andraste’s Herald was here to help the Lady now. They had Andraste’s blessing, friends, powerful allies, Southern Chantry Mages, and Templars while The Lady insisted on walking alone.

An army was needed to battle all these mages.

What could one single mage do against Tevinter’s tides?

_She won’t be. I’ll play my part._

When he reached the end of the chute and the great, closed iron doors of the pen beyond where the frightened men, women, and children would be driven through. Numbers attached to their necks. Their hands bound by rope, necks in iron collars, some would be linked together in chains. The old, the ugly, and the strong would be sold to the mines and they would not live long, a few years at best. The pretty ones would find themselves sold as bed slaves to some wealthy merchant or other, the pleasing might be set up as house slaves. Others would be broken down, handed off to become dock workers, doxies, day laborers, whatever their new master needed.

Rolf’s other hand rose to rub the leather collar he wore round his neck. It itched now, but the magic held a faint but different feel. The same touch of chilled iron that was the Lady’s magic. That which kept him trapped within Norba burned away.

Slowly, he came to a stop before the gate and knelt. He ran his hand down the mechanism for those who looked, while fishing the chalk out of his pocket. On either side, he could see the tall wheels controlling the great metal gate. Turning his back, Rolf began to write in the sharp, abrupt scrawl the Lady had taught him. They were runes and drawn in a strange, curling language his hands could barely imitate.

When he finished the first set, he felt the blue gem in his pocket warm. It sensed what they were about to do.

He hurried to the other side.

The sun was high in the sky. The procession would begin soon.

He had to be ready.

 

***

 

The noon sun burned high overhead as Eirwen fished a small packet from her pocket and fished out a round pill the size of a small button. Laying the tablet on her tongue, she swallowed. It pressed to the dry roof of her mouth, tasted tacky before sliding down her throat. Eirwen pulled her linen cloak a little tighter about her neck. The silver clasp carried no magic embedded within it, nor did the velvet choker around her neck. In the small alcove, she had traded her simple leathers for a silver dress with a high neck, sleeveless, open scoop exposing her breasts, and a hem that brushed the tops of her feet. She wore it in slightly coarser linen, than fine silk like the other ladies in the boxes high above the markets. The style was popular among the more affluent of the altus, but not the cloth. They dressed in fine linen and silks, or satin from Antiva.

She came as a lataen, a mage sub-class and barely more than a servant, though she truthfully had no class at all. A choker of fine blue satin was tied around her throat, for those Magisters who preferred to see lataens in symbolic bindings.

The great market walls stood high, made from a smooth, white sandstone. Distant guards moved along the outer ring, their backs carrying full quivers with unstrung bows. Their hands held their spears, more parade ready.

Eirwen smiled. They weren’t expecting trouble.

She turned for the flow of the crowd, and approached the great stone stairway leading up toward where Cornelia situated her preferred bidders and the dais from which she would open the ceremonies. Lifting her skirts, Eirwen climbed the stone steps quickly and passed the guards on her way to the upper boxes without a word. In Tevinter, as it was everywhere, it was more a matter of looking like one belonged. To walk with confidence. A pretty elven woman, magically modified, to be a pleasing servant was not uncommon. A lataen belonged to the genetically inferior. _And only a fool attacks a Magister._

Well, Eirwen thought as she stepped onto the highest level and inclined her head to the guard beside the great door, of all the things she’d been called in her lifetime, fool happened to be high on the list.

“You are?” the guard’s voice echoed in her ears.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes.

He was young with sparse black hair on his chin, barely more than a boy. Yet, there was a hardness in his large brown eyes and a slight cut to his smile. One which meant he intended some trouble. His gaze was on the satin band around her neck. Then those dark eyes dipped slightly lower.

Ah, Eirwen nodded. With no staff on her back, he saw an attractive slave and not a mage. She smiled, coyly fluttering her lashes. “An assistant, sir,” she said softly, adding in a slight stutter as her eyes dropped to his chest, “a-assisting my mistress, the L-l-lady Vox.”

The guard stepped off the wall. “Do you have papers?”

She let out a soft gasp, eyes flicking back to his face. “Papers?” she repeated, allowing her tongue to turn her tone into dumbfounded. Her eyes widened for dismay, mascara heavy lashes quivering. “I’m afraid Lady Vox said nothing of…”

The guard grinned. “Its new policy, I’m afraid.” He crossed the distance between them. “Magister Avix had fears about saboteurs in the high boxes. Some trouble in the Magisterium.” He craned in over her. “Everyone to enter the box needs to be authorized.”

_Liar, liar,_ Eirwen thought as she dipped her head. “I’m sorry, sir,” she continued, “but if I don’t reach my mistress, I fear she’ll be quite upset.”

His fingers caught her chin and forced it up. His grin had widened. “Then, we must check you _thoroughly_.” He leaned in closer and she smelled the garlic on his breath. “Mustn’t we?”

Pausing, she made a show of considering. “I believe,” she said slowly, her left hand rose slowly and carefully up the front of his jerkin to rest against the bristled stubble on the underside of his neck, “I understand your meaning.”

His other hand closed on her waist.

She smiled slightly. “I’ve a counter proposal.” As she leaned forward, her right hand dropped to the pommel of his dagger. Her bodice pressed against his jerkin, and she stood up onto her toes. “Be a good boy,” she whispered, lips brushing up the inside of his ear, “and don’t scream.”

His eyes dropped to her, mouth opening.

Her left fingers sharpened, glittered with a soft yellow light.

The wicker basket hit the stone with a soft thump, rolling away, and down the steps.

Yellow blazed around them. The guard stumbled, spear clattering as it slipped from his grip. Sharp, hardened rays lodged deep in his throat.

Eirwen caught him with her body as he slumped. Blood crystallized on his skin, forming tight, frozen bubbles around her fingers as his much taller body collapsed in on her.

Well, she frowned, she’d worked with less.

A flick of her wrist sent his knife clattering across the flagstones. “Where’s your key?”

His brown eyes widened and she could see the terror clouding them.

“Your windpipe is not severed,” she murmured. “Your lungs not yet full of blood.” One bladed finger jerked free, and she ran it up the underside of his jaw. “Your tongue still functions. You can speak.”

He shuddered.

She smiled. “Where is it?”

The guard’s jaw tightened, but his eyes dropped to his belt.

“Ah,” she nodded. Slowly, her fingers unlaced the small pouch hanging next to his sheath. “And here I was afraid you’d kept it somewhere safe.” Drawing a slender silver key from within it, she let her fingers plunge deeper into his throat and the carotid artery. “I don’t suppose this requires something special?” she asked. Slowly, she backed him down past the inside wall. “Like your blood? Nod for yes. A small head shake for no.”

He shook his head.

She exhaled, let her fingers evaporate, and rolled her shoulder left so the guard could clatter onto the flagstones. He gurgled as he went down, wheezed, his hand scrabbling for his sword as the blood pooled outside his neck. His legs kicked, thrashed, but the light had left his eyes. He was fading, his body had simply not caught up with his mind.

Eirwen turned away, fingers flicking red ice chips from her neck. She strolled to the door, twisted the handle. Locked. The key warmed in her hand. With a sigh, Eirwen slid it into the lock and turned. The lock popped, wood plank swinging back on it’s hinges. _The Magister could do with better security._

With one hand, she flung the doors open.

A wide hallway, walls paneled in wood rather than stone, stretched down toward a similarly large door on the opposite end. The guards inside sat crumpled in their chairs, or slumped over on the floor. Their weapons lay where they’d fallen. No sound could be heard from within the doors in the hall. No sound at all except the slight rustle of wind as it passed through the vents, and the copper pipes which were designated by Magister Cornelia to fill the room with more pleasing scents. There to counteract the smell of the holding pens in the building beneath while on the observation decks.

Eirwen took a moment to breathe deep in clean air before stepping inside. Even so, she tasted the oily rose scented perfume on the air. Those altus of Tevinter loved their oils, their strong scents, and their baths, much in the same way that an Orlesian loved their perfume. There were traits that Dorian shared with his countrymen and his delightful love of noxious concoctions to rub on his body was one of them.

This one tasted slightly differently on the air than the others of the past, and that was because it was of her design. Not Ancient, but not elven, an airborne poison dispersed through the air by oil lamps and burned incense. It clung and stuck in the lungs, joined with in the bloodstream, until those who breathed it in passed into a sleep from which they never woke. Last she heard, the Crows were testing something similar on their markets in Antiva. Slightly less effective, but that was, perhaps, for the best.

Laying her hand over her mouth, she kept walking. The antidote in her system would last for fifteen minutes or more. Even so, one could never be too careful.

Eirwen strode down the hall, head tilting ever so slightly back and forth as she let her senses expand outward. Her mind brushed through the small, separate rooms, over the lifeless coteries and contingents of Magister Cornelia’s supporters. A dead fur merchant who made his living on imports from Ostwick and the Marches. The head scholar of Norba’s local university and Cornelia’s second cousin, her preferred pick to sit on her throne. The others were less impressive, from families possessing a strong lineage but not enough to challenge Cornelia’s power. Lastly, Eirwen passed Magister Lorkis’ rooms and felt the quiet stirring inside.

Lorkis wracked by the deep, hacking coughs which accompanied the latter stages as the poison took hold. _I suspect he only survived this long due to all the necessary protections Magisters layer themselves with._ Those of the Magisterium lived a near constant state of suspicion and paranoia, knowing their rivals would take advantage of any slip. They leaned perpetually of the precipice, daring a hand to shove them, and their fall involved just as much a mockery for all to see.

Eirwen smiled, laying her hand against the door. She could feel it clawing its way through his body, ravaging his internal organs, his stomach, and his nervous system. He would live. _But only just._ And he’d never breathe easy again, the cough would follow him for the rest of his days. Which could be quite short if his political enemies in the Magistrate made quick work of him. It would be several hours yet before Lorkis could move at all. _As intended._ No rescue would come to Cornelia from the gallery of the powerful. The corner of her mouth twitched wryly. _Unsettling when plans proceed smoothly._ When things went well, it usually meant a much greater mistake waited just around the corner. Some bump she hadn’t counted on. _One I don’t see._

Slowly, Eirwen turned away, and passed the last of the dead guards as she walked up the steps.

On the other side of the opposing wall, one of Cornelia’s slaves struck the gongs. The Magister kept separate quarters from the top boxes and, while the poison might have left her incapacitated like Lorkis, death would be unlikely. The gong was supposed to signal the beginnings, for her most powerful supporters to exit their rooms and join her on the balcony. Where they all would stand together above the crowds, to symbolically show their unification and Cornelia’s domination over the proceedings.

The Magister enjoyed a united front.

She liked to remind all of Norba and those slaves whose spirits were yet to be broken that her control over their lives was unshakeable, unyielding, and unbreakable.

_Well,_ Eirwen thought as she pushed the door open, _we must all occasionally be disappointed._

 

***

 

Solas hurried up the hill, his steps quickening and lengthening with each stride. Cole raced along behind him. The bells high above his head tolled in deep rolling tones. Ravens dropped and darted between the buildings, ducking down over the road. Their caws echoed over the humans pushing and shoving toward the entrance. So many already seated, so many yet to force their way inside. The great doors were flung open and he could see the marble channel leading into the arena ahead of him.

Gongs rang, rang, and rang as they were struck.

Several members of the crowd screamed in dismay, ducking away from falling white globs as a raven loosed its bowels. The ravens caws echoed down the massive gate, almost driving the crowd forward. Laughing, Solas realized, watching a diving set of talons seize a mage’s headdress and drag it off. Black wings flapping wildly as the bird carried the shrieking human woman into the air by her hair. There were at least a hundred of them turning overhead, dropping out of the sky and into the crowd. Darting about mages casting firebolts, twisting, wheeling, and climbing again after they’d raked some unsuspecting Tevene merchant.

If one answer had grown increasingly plain as he allowed the crowd to carry him, it was that these elvhen were no friends of Tevinter. _It does not mean they are friends of mine, either._ He had to wonder what they were doing here, other than causing havoc. _They seem to be playing a standard prank._ Pranks…

Solas sighed.

He supposed that was the way of Dirthamen’s ravens.

_After all, why focus on important matters when there is torment and fun to be had?_ Several thousand years of surviving in this world and they’d not changed, not a single iota. They were still laughably childish in where they took their joy and nearly narcissistic as they promoted their hedonism above the People’s well-being. Swallowing his irritation, Solas pushed his way into the building safety with Cole at his back. _They might turn themselves to noble purpose rather than simple, pointless harassment._ Their skills would be of use. Lowering the Veil served the eventual goals of all Elvhen. Many who’d not agreed with his goals during Arlathan followed him now, united by their current purpose to restore the world to the way it was.

He cast an angry glance back over his shoulder to see a raven, larger than the others settled on the eaves above the street. Wings tucked on it’s back, it watched the madness with impassive black eyes.

Solas grit his teeth.

A young slave girl in a linen dress covered three small children with her body as she shoved them toward the door. Above her head, the ravens ducked, darted, and dived. They moved in calm, almost lazy unison. Never in danger of knocking, bumping, or buffeting the mass of feathers and black bodies that blocked out the blue sky.

He extended a hand, helping to haul the children inside and away from the clamoring stampede following them. Tiny fingers gripped him tightly as he yanked them forward, pulling them to the side.

“Merci!” The human girl cried, her accent thick as she stumbled in after them. Terror brought her native tongue to her lips. “Merci, Monsieur!”

Solas barely had time to nod before another frenzied body came striding up behind them. He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her past him to the wall, noting the long bloody scratches on the back of her neck and hair as she passed. All superficial, painful but she was in no danger. His mouth tightened, gaze returning to the quickly approaching crowd. A mass of bodies, perhaps a few hundred in all running for cover.

His eyes rose again to where the large raven sat.

It turned it’s head to the side, but the black eye remained focused on him. Then, a black eyelid dropped in what Solas could only describe as a slow wink.

His gut clenched, magic balling in his fist. This had not been a mere accident, they knew he was here. The strike itself was meant to harry him, annoy him, perhaps delay him. Though he could not guess as to why. Surely their business here was not the same as his.

Tiny fingers gripped his thigh and his hand dropped to the little boy who clutched him.

_Annoy me at the cost of these people’s safety._

His gaze swept across the crowd running toward him, cramming into the wide hall like sheep massing for a slaughter. Solas’ eyes widened. Half-right in regards to what Eirwen had come for. _She will lead a slaughter of slavers._ War never came without a cost and this would be paid in innocent lives. _Lives she will regret in time._ The boy clung more tightly to his leg. _No better than the Viddasala who sought to destroy Southern Thedas to erase me._

The gongs sounded.

_Booong. BOooong. Booong._

The deep rolling sounds echoed down off the walls, beating against the stone. From the way the crowd reacted, it might the Grand Market was about to open. _And_ _I am running out of time._ If he wished to stop this, if he wished to see it, but he had no desire to see what horrors Eirwen might inflict. _If she can inflict them._ It might not be what he thought, she might simply be performing an assassination. _What purpose do the chalk and crystal serve?_ Turning, he attempted to push deeper into the great hall and toward the arena.

The slave and the boys clung to him, weighed him down. They muttered something, words he could not catch. Spoke Tevene too quickly for him to follow.

“Come,” he said irritably. “We must get you inside.”

None of them moved.

He looked up to find the crowd circling him, flat eyes turning inward, and moved by a will which was not their own. No more frightened screams, the whole of the world stopped. Silenced. Only the gong’s rolling tones continued.

A hand rested on his shoulder and the slave girl spoke in a voice unaccented, “The Brotherhood of Ravens has a message for you, Fen’Harel.”

“Ah,” he swallowed. “I see it also maintains its ancient tricks.”

“Vir dirthera Melanada Vunin enaste,” the boy whispered, his tongue turning to form the ancient tongue with unerring accuracy.

“It is early yet for such a declaration,” he hissed. “There is no reason for us to remain enemies. Give up your senseless loyalty to false gods and aid us in bringing about an end to this shadow world!”

The face of a large human loomed close out of the crowd, mud clung to his beard, his robes stained with dark red splotches from wine. His head tilted to reveal gaps in his teeth. “We do not wish for oblivion.”

“We are the Melanada Vunin.”

“Our service is gifted.”

“It is unending.”

“We reject the endless dream to walk in lands now woken.”

“We want to live,” whispered the slave softly. “We want to live.”

Then, they vanished, quickly as they’d come. He watched some in the crowd shake their heads and blink their eyes, moving of their own volition. However, some did not. Some turned as if in a dream and walked back the way they’d come. All proud nobles and merchants in ermine and silk. Men and women, some tall, some short, walked into the sunlight as the gongs rang. Long strides carried them forward and away from befuddled friends, servants, and slaves.

It became a parade of long gowns and robes heading in the wrong direction. The towering headdresses in silver spread wide over their heads, dangling turquoise and ruby beads across forehead and cheeks. Metal strapped over noses, mouths, and chins in varying fashion statements. Mothers left their children behind, Fathers walked out their doors, servants chasing after them in confusion. The sunlit street filled with fifty wanderers heading away to parts unknown.

They would not stop, Solas remembered, until they reached the camps of the Melanada Vunin. He wondered if they’d be transformed into great black harts as criminal elvhen had in the days of Arlathan. Given two hundred and fifty years to come to an understanding of what they had done, to become contrite, to beg forgiveness and seek repentance. A lesson for the prideful. If they failed to realize their wrongdoing then they were condemned to carry the Brotherhood for all time. _Many of them were once harts, condemned to the fate by chance or by choice as a rite of passage._ He’d no doubt the Tevinter nobles and merchants under their sway would be meeting the same fate, though he doubted they’d receive the same offer. This arm of Arlathan justice and redemption did not spread wide enough to include shemlen.

Solas stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Wait.”

The crowd did not, but it did part. In its center stood a tall elven man with black hair. Golden leonine eyes glittering out of a pale face. Bodies flowed around him like water against a stone, parting for him and him alone. A faint smile cut up the right side of his mouth.

An unforgettable face.

One which once haunted his darkest nightmares.

“Dirthamen,” Solas breathed.

“You know, brother,” Dirthamen said. His eyes flicked to those enthralled Tevinter mages walking past him. “There will always be those who believe they walk through life untouched.” His smile widened into a menacing grin. He lifted a hand, brushing the curve of a passing woman’s cheek. “Do you not remember the joy in seeing them brought low?”

“You... have escaped Arlathan.” Heart jumping in his chest, Solas narrowed his eyes. “How?”

“How else does a wolf avoid the hunter’s trap?” Dirthamen replied, his eyes glittered in the sunlight. “I was not there.”

Solas took a step forward, gathering his magic. _I might lash out only to find nothing._ He blinked his eyes rapidly, aware of his own lack of mental protections. They were enough for mages of this time and his own people, but Dirthamen… no, they’d be child’s play for him. _I’ve been careless._ If Dirthamen was in his mind, then there was no telling what he might see or do. _Were he interested in discovery._

Laughing, the other elf turned away. “We will see each other again, brother.” His lithe form blended into the crowd of taller humans, disappearing as if he’d never been until a single raven rose above the crowd to join the flock resting on the building eaves. Together, they spiraled high toward the blue sky and wheeled, speeding east toward the inlet sea. As it did Dirthamen’s voice echoed back inside his thoughts, rattling his mind. _Do not doubt it._

Solas took a step to follow, to give chase when above him the walls were rocked with an explosion and the shemlen around him began to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joy of catching up is that you get a bunch of new chapters quickly. Dirthamen surprised me, I didn't expect him to reveal himself to Solas so soon. But... you know? He's a troll. They're all trolls.
> 
> The Melanada Vunin evolved pretty quickly into an idea I've had since I played the Wild Hunt, which was the question of "what exactly did justice in Arlathan look like?" I have a deep fondness for the Sidhe and ironic punishments. In some fairy myths, when a lord is rude to a visiting fairy to whom he has offered hospitality they take it upon themselves to punish him. One such punishment is transforming the offending noble into a horse and riding them across all worlds. The alternate version is that the human captures a fairy horse and it takes them for a ride which usually kills them. This kind of trolling isn't really in Solas' wheelhouse. (One could argue that it could be, but the slow arrow story isn't really about punishment. It's about people praying to someone else to save them and not saving themselves.)
> 
> Solas is also wrong as usual, but he has an expectation that everyone sees the world as he does. He doesn't see the people of modern Thedas as people. The Melanada Vunin? If their schtick is humbling the prideful as they themselves were once humbled then it might be a different story.
> 
> Elvish Translation:
> 
> Vir dirthera Melanada Vunin enaste - We tell you, the Melanada Vunin emerge victorious.


	17. Chapter 17

Eirwen stepped onto the platform, hand loose at her side. The hot tropical sun beat down on her shoulders and she wished it warmed her skin. Overhead, a sapphire blue sky was empty without even the hint of a single cloud. Below, the stands filled with merchants, lower class mages, and other high ranking household slaves left in charge of purchasing new bodies to fill their departments. Higher up in the boxes were the magus, lataens on the lower balcony with some servants and the altus above them. The higher they went, the more important they became until one reached the pinnacle above the arena’s circular uppermost ring where visiting Magisters watched the proceedings beside the region’s ruling family.

A lovely day, she thought, inhaling a deep draft of sea air.

Those in Tevinter always seemed to be.

Below the gongs bellowed, calling the pageantry to arms as the great doors on the arena floor that led down into the building’s bowels swung open. A rising thunder followed, both the rolling drum beats roar and the sound of feet hammering wooden ramps as the captives were driven up and out onto hot sand. Humans, elves, dwarves, and even some Qunari driven into the chutes like cattle. Their panicked flight accompanied by the strings of a hundred instruments as the crowd cheered. Some leapt to their feet, children crowding around the edges of the stands, peering over too look down at the motley collection of near uniform misery. Grand Auctions such as this one were excuses for celebrations, the presented slaves put on a show as much as showcased. What little scraps of pride remained was seen as entertainment by those who expected them to soon be humbled by the Empire’s might.

Eirwen swallowed. She couldn’t focus on them. Instead, she needed to trust her agents, Red with his rebels, and those hidden like Rolf who would carry out the other half of the plan. Today, she couldn’t spare them her concentration. Eirwen only hoped they would ensure those who might be rescued would be.

Narrowing her eyes, Eirwen straightened. Her battle lay ahead with the thin woman garbed in white robes.

At the edge of the marble balcony, Magister Cornelia lifted her hands. Reddish-sungold hair coiled atop her head in tight braids. A purple cloak hung across her shoulders. A wide triangular collar popped about her neck, threaded in gold and embroidered with silver dragons. Her nails were tipped with pointed claws forged from precious metals, orichalum and moonsilver. Their swirling patterns glowing with an inner blue light.

_ Lyrium. _ She smiled.  _ There is it, her tool for casting. _

Cornelia stood regally with a straight back, six guards flanked her in heavy ceremonial armor similarly filagreed in gold. There to protect against the mage-killers or conventional assassins that might be sent against her. It was possible were Tevinter trained when it came to overcoming magic, but she doubted it. Most mages became uncomfortable in the presence of any non-mage which they understood might threaten them. While Cornelia herself was given to grand displays. That, coupled with everything Eirwen had learned of Cornelia in the past months, all suggested the Magister was given to the belief that none but Archon Radonis himself could stand against her in tests of sorcery.  _ Were Cornelia not the architect of this region’s misery, I might almost hope it proved true. _ Whether those beliefs proved rightful pride or hubris, they were about to be put to the test.

Eirwen lifted her eyes to the blue sky above and inhaled again, then let the door swing shut behind her. Magic built in her core, a swiftly stoked fire. Ice crept outward from her toes. Slowly, she extended a glittering yellow hand. It thinned, sharpening into a single blade as the color shifted to a pale sapphire.

Cornelia’s head lifted, turning ever so slightly. “It is good of you to finally join us, Lorkis.” She laughed softly. “We worried you’d miss the show.”

“I’m afraid the Magister won’t be joining us.”

Magister Cornelia turned, cutting an impressive figure as she leaned back against a wall of carved marble. Her guards did as well, jerking around in a single motion. Two stepped forward into the middle of balcony, shields raised and swords drawn. Their shields didn’t tilt.  _ Neither Templar, nor Qunari in training. _ They left a small opening between them. Two slid to the side, one on either end, they circled about. The last two remained at Cornelia’s side.

“I see.” The Magister lifted her chin, ruby lips cut into a smile. “Then I must also suppose my old friend is dead.”

“Not yet.” Eirwen’s simple linen hem brushed the tops of her feet, air cooling around her. “Soon.”

“You are an assassin, yes?” Cornelia’s head tilted, her cornflower blue eyes sweeping across down with distaste. “My aides warned me Claudius might send a scuttling bug.” She was a tall women, nearly six feet without heels and in them she towered. Her fairer skin and light hair spoke of either Fereldan, Orlesian, or Free Marcher ancestry. It made her more than likely the descendant of slaves or an apostate come to Tevinter seeking sanctuary, either way this one was a self-made Magister. “Both cuniculus and magus by the look of it.” She shook her head, “and not of Tevinter, what a pity.”

_ Cuniculus, rabbit.  _ Slowly, Eirwen stepped off the steps and a faint smile touched her mouth. Different words in different languages, but the same slurs were common everywhere. “I might say the same.”

Cornelia’s eyes narrowed, mouth tightening. Coiled tendrils gathered about her, magic drawn from within and without. Her nails dug into her wrist, thin blood trailing out from long scratches.

_ So,  _ Eirwen thought,  _ the shame still runs deep. _

“Were you a lataen,” Cornelia continued. “`I might even count on you to have some proper training, but it seems Claudius is truly desperate.” Blood boiled off carved moonsilver nails. “He has sent you to your death, little bunny.”

“I’d heard Tevene magic was the greatest in the world,” Eirwen said mildly, stepping down off the steps and out from under a linen canopy.  _ A few lies here and there never hurt. _ “It should be interesting to witness.”

One of Cornelia’s guards, the smaller one on the right, laughed.

“In the moments before you expire, you shall witness a grandeur the likes of you has never before seen!”

Eirwen smiled wryly. The faces of Corypheus, Flemeth, and Solas leaping up out of her memory to denounce the Magister’s claims. It was not only their strength, she thought looking at the woman before her, but their presence. Those with true power never needed to boast. Now that they were finally face to face, Cornelia felt small by comparison. _Still,_ _were I an average mage from the south, I suppose she’d be somewhat correct._ Blood magic and the greater spells practiced in Tevinter, such experimentation was unheard of there. Inclining her head, she offered up a slight courtly bow.

An unsure murmur passed through the group of bodyguards.

She tilted her head and winked.

“Are you a fool?” Cornelia asked.

“Yes,” Eirwen replied as she flung her hand high. “I’m uniquely hopeless in my inability to learn.” Light wheeled off her palm, a crack shuddering through the overhead sky. Great waves of purple light rippled outward, coiling and shifting like snakes as they wound round and round until it formed a vast blue portal rotating above the coliseum. Somewhere beneath them, someone screamed. “That’s why I brought friends.”

Cornelia’s head jerked. “What have you…”

A great shadow fell upon them as a roar echoed against the stone seating. Eirwen felt the rush of air, of wings opening up behind her. A sudden storm born on swirling air. Sound chilling all who heard it to the bone. There was only one sound in all the world so beloved by Tevinter, one sound known in the heart of every child. One sound they had forgotten to fear.

The roar of the high dragon.

Ataashi dropped out of the azure portal like a sign from heaven, of vengeance revisited. Her sapphire, green, and gold scales shining in the sun. Landing hard, her claws dug deep into the stone walls above them. Great head thrown back. She bellowed in triumph. Rocked by great claws seizing the short roof above them, Cornelia’s men stumbled. The balcony shifted and creaked beneath the dragon’s weight.

Cornelia’s hands gripped the stone, gaze locked on Ataashi. Her eyes widened, pupils dilated, and breath quickened. “What is that?” she all but screamed, squirming backwards. “What is THAT?”

Eirwen doubted the concept of non-human friends and allies had ever occurred to her.

“Dragon!” One of the men shouted. “Dragon!”

Ataashi’s claws tore away great chunks from the walls, ripped free the linen covering overhead, casting them down into the arena below. She leaned forward, great snout extending to snort out a fire’s blaze.

“Magister Cornelia,” Eirwen held out her right hand, palm up. Her stance the perfect posture of an Orlesian lord inviting a lady to dance. “I pray you shall join me in this final dance of blades.”

Cornelia’s surprised eyes leapt to her, black pupils dilated in blue wreaths of inner light. But her gaze switched as her head turned and she wheeled back around to grip the marble with white knuckles. “What is happening?” Her voice pitched high. “Where are they going?”

“To freedom,” Eirwen replied patiently. “Why? Did you believe those robbed of their homelands would choose to stay?”

Ataashi roared again, answering the screams in the crowds below. Her wings spread beat, great gusts sweeping across the balcony. She lunged off the wall into a dive, heading for the arena’s center. A single thrash of her falling tail took half the balcony with her. The sixth bodyguard on that side yelled while the stone crumbled beneath his feet, knocked to the side. He stumbled. Marble fixtures broke, floor fractured, and sent him plunging toward the sand below.

Cornelia visibly shuddered, her shoulders bunching, pressing the flat of her chest against the marble. “I must deal with this!” Cornelia’s eyes narrowed. “Punish all this…” Whipping about, she pointed a long nail directly at Eirwen’s head. “The first to die shall be you!” 

A ball of red light exploded off her hand, blazing with an inner white glow.

Eirwen stepped sideways and allowed the ball’s energy to pass. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it whip around. It circled back, homing in on her location. Spell catching her arm and legs, left them taught as if bound up in spiderwebs. Her lips twitched, ball glancing off her barrier to splatter harmlessly on the marble flagstones.

_ Is this it? _

“Kill her!”

Two of Cornelia’s warriors moved closer, hesitantly. Their eyes moving in the slits in their helmets from Eirwen then back to their mistress.

Eirwen spread her hands, red string cracking and falling harmlessly to the ground. “Stay and die or lower your weapons and run to freedom.” She shrugged. “Either way, it matters little. You won’t be employed much longer.”

The one armed from the right shuddered, eyes locked on the cracks creeping across the stone toward them. With a sudden thrust, he threw down both sword and shield. He lifted his hands. Then, he was running toward the second door leading back off the balcony.

“Andras!” Cornelia screamed. “Return to me, coward!”

The remaining four advanced toward her slowly, shields raised. Their blades extended. Slightly hunched posture indicated they were ready, if hesitant. Their gaze flicked back and forth to one another as they hunkered together. The bodies now physically blocking the path between Eirwen and the Magister. 

She saw fear in their eyes. Masked, perhaps, by heavy helmets, their faces protected by the faceshield, but she could see it.  _ More afraid of their master than of me. _

“Attack!”

“Garas,” Eirwen said, raising her shining left arm. “Ar ghilani ma halam.”

 

_ Come. _

_ I will guide you to your end. _

 

***

 

The world screamed. Winds hot with fire and smoke as the dragon came down. The slaves clung to each other, naked bodies pressed firmly together in terror as they cried out in the chute. Rolf raced across the arena, the sands burned his feet. Gem clutched tightly in his hand. His heart hammered his chest, desperate yells filling the air all around him.

Soldiers threw down their weapons, the gates into the coliseum’s depths swung shut. Rolf hoped they’d find enemies of their own to greet inside. Patrons fled up the steps, trying to escape the dragon’s fire. Its breath steamed down on top of them, setting the stand’s marble steps ablaze. Their charred bodies tumbled to blackened stone. Air filled with the thickened stench of burning flesh.

_I must reach the gates!_ His eyes locked on the chalk markings on the outside of the pens. _For the Lady,_ _I must reach them!_

Others in black were running to the back of the chute, armed with spears and swords.  _ Elves in black, _ Rolf realized. They didn’t leap on the guards so much as carve them up with their short iron blades. One of the guards caught a fleeing one to his left by the arm. Swinging him about, he plowed a ruddy fist into his face.

Another deafening roar sounded overhead, answered by more screams.

Coming to a stop before the gates, Rolf inhaled another choking breath.

Fingers pushed through the bars, faces pressed against the wood. “Get us out!”

“Please!”

Rolf’s throat thickened when he saw a few hands lifting the children over their heads and passing them down toward the chute walls. He grasped red haired girl’s hands with his fingers, other hand fumbling to escape his pocket. “I will!” The stone burned hot in his hand as he pressed it to the gate’s middle. Biting back a cry, he leaned forward. “I will!”

Blue light bloomed off the stone, the same color as what was overhead. The light which had brought the dragon.  _ The Lady’s power,  _ Rolf thought anxiously, his palm flat against the now flickering gates. His knees shuddered, eyes lifting to see a man. A sandy haired human in black and wearing a red mask marking him to the dragons crouched on the chute’s right side. 

“Quickly!” the Red Mask shouted, raising a bloody iron blade above his head. “If you care for you lives, you must go through!” He pointed it toward Rolf and the blue light. “Now!”

Rolf held his breath, ignoring the pain lancing up his wrist.

The crowd milled for a moment. Shock, surprise, terror, all these raced through a crowd of hundreds. Someone shouted something but, deafened by the circling dragon, Rolf couldn’t hear it.

“Now!” Red Mask cried. “Or you’re all dead!”

A few other voices cried out.

Explosions sounded from the back end of the pen.

Then, the crowd was moving.

Pushing, shoving, they pressed through the glowing portal in lines wider than five across. Some fell and tripped, others leapt over their bodies. Rolf’s eyes squeezed shut against a few terrified voices crushed beneath the feet of the mob. His sandals dug into the hot sands, hand flat on the gate. Magic writhed up in arm in blue flames, circling the jewel searing into his flesh. It climbed higher and higher as the jewel’s light dimmed. He felt the hunger inside the portal, snapping and thrashing for his essence. Its desire to devour.

_ I’ll hold on! _ His molars ground together.  _ For the Lady! _

 

***

 

Air howled all around Cornelia, screams lured up from the Abyss of those forsaken by the Maker. Blinding snow slashed across her eyes, forcing her to throw up a hand. Swirling white hid her men from view. Every now and again, she caught flashes of electric blue sparking in the cyclone. A whip of pure light snapping out of the blizzard as another of her guards cried out.

She saw a few frozen bodies slumped on the ground, their golden raiments cracked, red blood flash frozen in small pools on the ground. Each death destroyed a light on her knuckle as the life monitors in their collars were silenced.

_ Andras fled. _ He’d be killed in time. _ Josel, Rickard, Walleth all dead.  _ Murdered by the silver haired hussy in the center of the storm. Cold crept along the marble, sealing up the cracks. The storm spread outward. A biting chill whipped her toes, pressing her against the wall.  _ It is just magic, _ Cornelia thought. With a wave of a hand, she put her own barrier into place. The cold still stung her, bites snapping at her fingers and neck, but she felt her fear lessen. This blizzard could be denied.  _ It is just magic. _ Rabbit magic. No comparison to the likes of Radonis and his ilk, whatever the girl summoned up from her pocket.

_ Cornelia, the Dragon Slayer!  _ Her hand lifted and she banished the chill surrounding her. _ Cornelia, Savior of Norba! _ She must focus on how much power this would buy her. Putting down a rebellion, hunting those who conspired to bring her low, and bringing them to justice!

Silver flashes burst through the flurries, snaps of turquoise light. Lash sweeping in a wide arc through the whirling winds, more men’s screams. Her men, she knew.

_ Their sacrifice shall be remembered! _

Cornelia lifted her hand, summoning the power and strength in her blood. She whipped her hand out, willing the howling storm before her to disperse.  Fire swept out before her in a wave, rolling into the frozen fray. It worked, for a moment. The blaze catching fire on the blood, melting away frozen water holding the cracked marble together. The ground beneath her heaved, the front end of the balcony drifting sideways as the storm ended with a snap.

Cornelia stepped forward, ready to fight.

And stopped. 

Dead in her tracks.

The silver haired cuniculus mage stood in the center of her fallen men, cuts opened all over her body. Blood soaked her linen dress, slid down her legs visible through the cuts in her skirt, pooling around her toes. Four blades stabbed through her center, one passed directly through what should’ve been her treacherous heart. Blood coursed over her lips, dribbling down her chin. Arms spread wide, thrust out like a bird in flight. As if, at any moment, she too might take to the skies. Her head tossed back in ecstasy, loose curls coiling down her back. Gaze focused not on Cornelia at all. Instead, she stared emptily at the sparkling sapphire portal overhead.

Then, the rabbit’s eyes dropped and their gaze met.

Cornelia’s breath hitched in her throat.

Her irises, they burned. Within them, there were no pupils at all but blue light like a star captured within the boundaries of an icy glacier. A spirit struggling to escape a tormented and battered physical form.

_ Those are not the eyes of any mortal creature! They are a spirit’s! _

Bruised mouth curved into a faint smile.

_ Abomination! _

The turquoise whip yanked off the floor, retracting into a hand. It reached out and seized the hilt of the blade speared through her heart. The elven mage drew it out slowly, inch by bloody inch. Her smile widening to a grin with each one. Until at last, she whipped it out, and sent a spray of blood spinning across their balcony battlefield. It splattered across the fallen, frozen bodies of her guards. Splattered Cornelia herself.

The mage’s head tilted sideways, an inhuman motion. As if she were listening, rather than seeing. Then, she laughed.

“What are you?” Cornelia heard herself ask. She hated how her voice trembled. “Tell me!”

The creature’s head straightened and it studied her, burning gaze almost pitying.

_ How fast,  _ Cornelia thought.  _ How fast terror drives us from she to it. _

“Conquest.” The voice was hollow, strangely sad. “That is what I am.”

“Conquest,” Cornelia repeated distantly, her knees weak. “Conquest.”

_ It is not over yet.  _ She had been covered in blood, covered, and there was blood frozen all around her. More than enough to mount a challenge against this abomination. More than enough.

“Yes,” the Abomination said. “I am the dream, the voice which calls all to war.”

Cornelia edged away. “I suppose I must bow to you.”

Again, the creature laughed.

She suppressed a shiver.

“Do you believe there is anything you might say which would spare you?” The creature lifted its chin and the swords impaling its body vanished. The blood went with it. Bodies of her men evaporating in sapphire blue light. It stepped forward. It’s head went left, and the wounds healed as if they had never been. It straightened and it was an elven woman again. Magic bloomed off her back, opening into a pair of fiery blue wings. They stretched up into the sky, pillars. The fire spread from her eyes, cracking through her white skin. Licked off her body in a bonfire. Her turquoise hand clenched around the bloody sword’s hilt. “In the end, there is no sanctuary.”

_ Keep her talking.  _ “How?”

“I am what this world has made,” the rabbit mage tilted her head, “and in thanks I shall carve it apart.”

Cornelia summoned up the remaining blood pooling at her feet. It rose about her in tendrils, coating her fingers as they formed blades. The protective barrier shuddered about her from the mere weight of the Abomination’s magic. She had faced them before, she remembered, but never been this outmatched.  _ I was wrong. _ The portal was still swirling overhead. This creature’s doing. The strength of will required to maintain such a spell… Cornelia suspected she was only beginning to contemplate.

The mage flicked the blade out, pointing it directly at Cornelia’s heart.

Flurries swirled about her feet.

They blew past Cornelia’s nose. The frigid winds once again chilling the Magister to the bone. Blood crackled on the mage’s feet, slipping out from beneath her nails.

Cornelia yanked her left hand back.

 

***

  
  


Pooling blood spun together, water turning to ice, ice spiraled. Eirwen whipped her right hand up.

The Magister’s eyes narrowed. Then, they widened.

She stumbled.

Ice protruded from her chest, a blade speared out. Struck from behind. Blood sprayed, misting through the air. Blood whips stalled, lancing razor edged tip frozen centimeters from Eirwen’s eye.

Cornelia’s knees buckled, body sliding down the icy bladed pike. Pulsing, half-coagulated tendrils flopped to the ground with a wet thunk. She slumped to the red stained wood. For a moment, her fingers twitched.

Then, she lay still.

Staring into wide empty blue eyes, Eirwen paused. The faint distant sun left them glassy in the winter’s light. Drained face paling as blood continued to leak from the corpse. A single, loose curl flopped across Magister Cornelia’s wide brow. One hand extended out, curled into a stiff claw on the wood. Slackened lips hardened their expression. Abandoned among her dead guards with no ceremony, different only in dress from the unfortunates surrounding her body.

Overhead, the clouds swirled and temperatures dropped. Cold winds churning through the stadium, winding flurries sealing away the stands below. Lips pursed, Eirwen turned away and walked toward the edge of the platform. She was met with a sheer drop, a plummeting view more than a hundred feet down to the arena. The screams were dying down. Distant bodies charred, lying in pools of blood soaked into the sand, green and black raiments of Cornelia’s mages and guards mixed together with soiled brown rags.  _ Those future slaves unable or unwilling to escape. _

Lifting her right arm, she sent sparks racing up her fingers, and fired off the red signal for Ataashi. It exploded as a star high in the gray sky.

Below, the dragon wheeled. Wings snapped wide. A few great thrusts sent her high, and she flew through the great blue hole opened in the sky. Disappearing quickly as she’d come, returned to the Wilds.

Eirwen didn’t bother to spare a glance for Cornelia, she would lay where she fell until someone came to claim her or insects took up residence within her body. Whether it would be a follower or surviving family, it hardly mattered. The Magister was dead. All she might have achieved cut short. Killed in the way she’d expected, dead by the hand of another mage. Only the individual and the means had eluded her.

_ One day it will be me. _

Drawing up her hood, she let her cloak flutter in the winds. Head tilted up, she listened to the boots of soldiers pounding up the stairs. Cornelia’s guards, those stationed elsewhere in Norba, had finally arrived. 

With another Magister behind them, she thought. Whether a friend or rival to Cornelia, it made little difference. Her head tilted. _Male._ Nose burning, six green spots glowed behind her eyes. _And more mages follow in his wake._ Strands of hair lifted, pulled toward the horizon. _Bringing a whole retinue,_ _I feel honored._

All the more for her to extinguish on her way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually kind of disappointed with Cornelia since she feels like a bit of a lackluster let down, but I guess it's because characters like Eirwen have sort of moved beyond characters like her. It wasn't anything close to a fair fight. Eirwen also likes to put on a show, enjoys her theatrics, but my Nightwish playlist is definitely to blame for that bit with the blades. I was channeling the Warhammer mages for that trick, the POWAH OF THE WARP COMETH. 
> 
> Or something.
> 
> If this was Warhammer, Norba would have some greater demon wandering in the downtown and everything would be SO MUCH WORSE. No raw chaos is here to eat Thedas today.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. It was all action. All the time. We'll get back to Solas and maybe Dirthameeeeeeeen in the next chapter. I appreciate all the comments I've received over the past few chapters. They really kept me going. Chime in and let me know what you think!


	18. Chapter 18

Colonel Reginald Drake hurried up the wooden steps leading toward Magister Cornelia’s box. He ignored the frightful cold, frost forming on his polished cuirass and clinging to his gorget. _I cannot feel my lips._ The same blue-white frost crept along the walls, thickening as he climbed. Magister Vaxus had strict orders. Whatever magical wonders Cornelia had loosed were to be recovered. He and his men must, else they might find their heads next on the block when the day came for experimentation.

Vaxus enjoyed punishing failure and he disliked the idea any magic existed outside his control.   
Clenched stiff fingers around the hilt of his blade, he drew it from his sheath. It would do him no good if the blade froze, if he could not draw. A troublesome issue his father complained about when he was a boy. He remembered him vaguely, that he’d served as a guardsman in Ostwick. A bear of a man, far taller and broader in Drake’s memory than he must be in life. A giant who cursed like a sailor then drank twice as hard. He remembered him complaining of swords sticking in the cold.

It was all Drake did.

He had a job, now.

Distract the wayward spirit Cornelia unleashed so it might be secured.

Surprise overtook Drake when a white halla slammed through the door, frigid winds knocking her enemy into the wall on the stair’s landing. She swerved to a stop. Lifting her head, almost like a frightened or furious horse and surveyed them with cold blue-white eyes.

Drake was unsure how he knew it was female. Only when she caught his gaze with cold, sad eyes, he knew. The knowledge utter and total, seeping deep within his frozen bones.

“You must capture it,” Magister Vaxus called from the bottom. “I will erect a cage here, my boy. You and the others drive her down into it.”

The halla tossed her head, letting out a derisive snort.

_Almost like she’s laughing._

Or, perhaps, sobbing. He could not escape the howling in the winds, they sounded almost like a weeping child. Watching the halla paw the boards, he swallowed. Tears formed and froze on his own lashes, stomach knotted with bitter sorrow. _I do not dare disrupt the Magister._

“This day has been a loss by Cornelia’s foolishness, but perhaps it can be salvaged.”

From the way the creature narrowed her eyes, Drake doubted she’d come willingly.

  


***

 

Tan stood in Fen’Harel’s study, seething. _Ruined books, ruined papers, ruined notes, and a ruined desk._ She ticked down the list. She’d never been sure why he needed a desk at all. A pretense perhaps, but a comfortable chair or bed often served him better in the past. Modern times required primitive niceties such as quills, ink, and parchment. In Arlathan, knowledge was passed from one to the other directly in the form of captured memories. One did not need to record in words when they possessed the experience itself. Over the past three years, Fen’Harel had scrounged through lost ruins, ancient caverns, and the collector’s estates looking for the ancient technology which allowed them to return to a more familiar level of communication than their current primitive note passing.

He had been partially successful, making his insistence on quills, parchment, and notation all the more infuriating.

Striding to the room’s center, Tan knelt in the circle of ash. Black marks scorched into the granite. The room stank of magic, brimmed with it, air still throbbing with heat. Almost enough to singe her fingers. It certainly might make her hair stand on end were Fen’Harel anywhere within the vicinity. Still, all signs pointed to his emotional state disturbed. Deeply if one believed appearances. _And now he has thrown a tantrum!_

She sighed.

Truly, Tan did not know what else to call it. They were dangerous thoughts, few dared to stand against him when he was in a temper. Much as Fen’Harel exalted a good discussion, he also had a nasty habit of striking down the lesser opponents who failed to recognize his point of view. Any free person might find themselves in danger. Though he rarely took his frustrations out on slaves, the free passersby were not so lucky and those who truly offended him often found themselves victims of a nasty prank. While his sage advice rarely proved the kind one should follow, he often became irritated when ignored.

He was not so terrible as those among the Evanuris. Andruil often had those who disagreed with her dragged into her forests and left to wander in the deep woods or jungles, far from civilization where they might be hunted by her Banal’ras and Ghilnan’nain’s creatures. The great offender Falon’din once slaughtered an entire castle and surrounding countryside for a few late bows, and Dirthamen… she did not know. Those who disagreed with him, publicly or otherwise, often never spoke of it again.

None of this helped her now, of course. _I must address one problem at a time._ Pensively, her eyes jerked back to the blackened burns on the stone, thoughts trending in a dangerous direction. _The great Fen’Harel is distracted._ Fingers scraping through her hair, she yanked at her roots. _Again._ She trusted him implicitly. Yes, she reminded herself, implicitly. Most of the time. Even after the death of Felassan. She trusted him. Knew he would do his best by their cadre, trusted in his dedication to restoring the world they lost would bring many other lost elvhen out of hiding. They all longed for a return to similar, if not the same, worlds. They wished to escape this wretched shadowland and these banalvhen that wore their faces, still worshipping the false gods. Shades with vallaslin, a sore memory of their failure. Even the Banalvhen themselves did not see this as a world worth living in. Many Dalish individuals, even, had joined them on the promise of return the old world. A world which they were not hunted through, one they ruled. _A powerful promise dribbled into ears opened by desperation._

Much as she hated the banalvhen, Tan respected those dreams. They were the single common point shared between them in the vast sea of differences. All creatures under earth and sky must eventually forsake their masters. Carve out a place in the world for themselves. She’d been raised in Arlathan, born to a lesser lord’s servant and declared by her master for Elgar’nan when she came of age. The magic in her blood was then sealed away by blood binding, channeled into the holder of her key. Some paid to the Great One in tax, the rest to her master, and lastly a portion to herself in order to sustain her life. Given to the Evanuri as a gift on her 2200nd birthday, she had been taken from the twining gold and crystal towers and moved to his secluded personal gardens in the East.

Fen’Harel found her there, taught her over millennia about the value of independence and free thought. Taught her to see their rigidly structured caste system for what it was. Taught her that it did not always need to be that way. Or, at least, that she need not blindly accept it. It was not blasphemy to look at the holdings of a great lord and wonder how they had earned their accolades. It was not wrong to search for a world in which she said prayers to no god, no elvhen at all. No Divine Right to rule, no need for rulers at all. Each intelligent creature had a right to govern themselves. It went no further than that.

Tan inhaled sharply. Unclenching the fingers rigidly grasping the hem of her blouse with a hard exhale. Forcing them to hang loosely at her sides, she turned her gaze to the map on the wall. Dotted with tiny flags in red, white, and blue, they at least were untouched. To her disappointment, Fen’Harel continued to insist on just the one. Forcing her to relearn her notation system each and every time troops moved, an agent died, or an event circulated which upset their plans in a regional area. More the map Fen’Harel eventually settled on was not particularly large. In the passing years, it had come to seem not like a map but a porcupine. The whole business was entirely unnecessary.

 _Damn him,_ Tan thought irritably. _The least he could’ve done is informed us of where he was going._ She’d assumed when he left that his business had been business. Looking at the state of his room now, she was no longer so sure. She hated it, this missing trust. Feeling the worries creep in whenever he left. Wondering what he’d be doing, wondering if he was working on what he’d promised or if he was once again _mooning_ over that banalvhen.

In principle, Tan had nothing against the girl. In another world and another life, she’d be pleased her old friend found such a love. One Fen’harel sometimes even listened to when her finger wagged under his nose. There never were enough bright spots. Certainly none within Arlathan itself, and fewer still after its fall. She sighed, glancing down at her hands and the band of skin at her left ring finger slightly paler than the rest. _No._ Her eyes squeezed shut. Never enough.

Fen’Harel taught that in pursuit of great dreams all must be left behind. Freedom came in facing the unknown, in rejecting those ties and bonds which kept one from their duty to this higher cause. Tan swallowed. _There is none nobler._

For her part, she felt nothing but disgust for those who failed to make similar sacrifices. Knew they deserved nothing but. Gaze returning to the scorch marks on the floor, she loosed another long sigh. It pained her to see him like this. Fallen so short of his principles. Proved a hypocrite. Discarded in appearance, clung on in fact. Ought to have let it go and moved forward, if only he had. Then, perhaps, she would not feel such disgust.

“I am disgusted by you, Fen’Harel,” she told the empty room in elvhen. It was a dangerous thing to do. Wherever Fen’Harel walked, the edges of the Veil’s tapestry tore and frayed. The Fade clung closer, burning in the passerby’s memories. Should he pause or linger, he would experience this moment vividly as if he himself had lived it. “Deeply, I am.” She sighed. “But you have my word, I will follow you until the end and you have my pledge. I will do whatever is necessary to see our goals achieved.”

Behind her, footsteps clattered in the hall and she turned to face the strange young elf slamming through the door.

“Delwyn of the Balsamhal.”

Yanking himself up short, Delwyn dropped into a low bow. A shock of black hair fell across his brow and Tan found herself smiling. Alone among them, Delwyn never seemed to age. Not even in spirit. “Number Two! I bring news!”

Putting her hands on her hips, she tilted her head. “Well?”

Delwyn paused a moment, then lifted his eyes. He offered a chagrined grin. “Our agents report the Inquisitor has returned to Skyhold.”

Tan’s eyes narrowed, she hated usage of the human term for their former stronghold’s remains. “That is truly excellent news.”

“The others in the castle are waiting for new instructions.”

“Tell them to wait,” she said. It felt like she gave many such orders these days. “Do not fear, however, Fen’Harel’s plans shall continue soon.”

Once again, Delwyn bowed deeply.

She waved him off, having long ago given up on attempting to break his deferential habits. They were all equals here. Though, for Delwyn, some ended up more equal than others. He scrambled away as she turned back to the map. Her eyes slightly narrowed, fixed on the tiny white flags indicating Tarasyl’an Tel’as.

_It is high time we rid ourselves of distractions._

Mouth pulling sideways into a smile, she inhaled a deep breath. No. They could not afford to wait for Fen’Harel forever. She knew what happened to Felassan, knew too that she was no more valuable than he. The Dread Wolf destroyed every danger to him, every perceived threat to his cause, and every betrayal. _Even those closest to his heart, all except one._ Remarkable from a being often without much restraint. Given how much the banalvhen tormented him and his previous track record, solid bets for her death were lain on the moment she outlived her usefulness.

Yet, it did not occur. Time and time again, she found him fretting over reports from balls or sketching that winsome face in the margins of his journals. His insistent collection of every piece written by one Varric Tethras, including those which tore down the Dread Wolf’s tale. He never put his own or their plans in jeopardy, which she gave thanks for. He merely dragged his feet about the whole business. Only the others who had known him long noticed, she knew. Fen’Harel kept his feelings well hid. Yet all she saw now was no rebel leader but a lovelorn man, battered and battle weary. One angry at the world and the choices it had forced upon him. Both older than she’d ever seen him and younger than he’d ever been.

All those emotions suppressed during his time with the Inquisition, the gaping wounds still unhealed from their long years at war with the Evanuris, it frayed at the edges and leaked out like blood trailing across crisp, white snow.

Tan had been patient, she knew what it was to have hope. Knew too the pain in seeing it ripped away. Knew the passing sunlit dream from which one awakened into a nightmare. However, they were now approaching their third year in this hole and three years of sullen melancholy, of fussing was three too long. For the good of all, distractions must be purged. _Even if I am purged in the process._ With his girl-child gone, Solas would no longer have reason to linger and Fen’Harel would return in force. _After all, it was he who taught us to aid our brothers if they could not come to the conclusion themselves._ Forgiveness may not be in the cards, however if loss appropriately refocused him then all sacrifices were necessary. _I shall do what is necessary. Arlathan will once again see its sunrise._

Tan tucked her hands behind her back and straightened her back. Her right index found the paler skin around her ring, she brushed over it thoughtfully. Stepping back, she turned round and followed Delwyn from the room. With a flick of her wrist, the great oak door shut behind her.

_Perhaps I shall see you soon, Felassan._

It was not so terrible a thought.

_Yes._

Her smile widened.

_Perhaps I will._

 

***

 

Solas hurried toward the arena, winter winds howling in his ears. He kept himself moving at a deliberate pace, the slave mask giving way to his true self. HIs back jerking steadily upright until it went rigid. His linen clothes burning off to be replaced by his traditional bronze armor. Wolf pelt draping across one shoulder. His eyes deliberately narrowed, hands clenched at the base of his spine. Rage built in his core, slowly at first then stoked hotter and hotter as Norba screamed. Frost crept across the tall, stone walls, chilled frozen lines spidering out across the ground like webs. Bodies lay charred upon the ground. The stench of boiling flesh filled the air. Chaos roared around him.

It was madness, all of it.

The Brotherhood of Ravens still alive, Dirthamen free, and Eirwen… _Oh, vhenan,_ he thought as he stretched out his fingers to brush tiny crystalline spires rising off the stone. His voice barely more than a whisper, “what have you done?”

The voices above, below, and behind him crying out in Tevene were his only answer.

His hand came away from the wall, metal fingertips of his gauntlets white with frost. The same laying claim to the bodies on the ground. It covered them in blankets, in sheets of ice. Embedded magic sinking into their skin, white hot flashes frozen in an iron grip. It hungered, this magic. It yearned to connect, to touch, and its essence screamed angrily. Lashing out at those it came into contact with, almost as if it were a wounded animal. At once both horribly alien and incredibly familiar. Its rage implacable. The magic itself felt like a spirit, twisted and corrupted, and shoved through the Veil as Wisdom had been. This… this magic… beneath the chill, it was a hot, angry, infected wound wrenched open, a soul in agony. Infected, though not by an intruder as commonly discernable as the Blight.

His gut knotted and he felt strangely sick.

_This is not Eirwen._

Solas did not know who else it could be, but this was not the heart of the woman he’d met on the steppes of Vir Ghilan. It was not her, something else had taken her place. Something raw and vicious, and filled with fury.

“Where are you?”

The words echoed in his ears and he realized it was his own voice.

_I cannot feel her._

Sensing anything in this arena, it was like staring into a blizzard. Tiny magical flares blurred his vision, stinging his senses. This whiteout blanketed the whole of the coliseum.

_I cannot feel her!_

That knowledge stuck in his gorge, knotting in with a sudden surge of terrified panic. This mystical strength crashed, crested against him, and carried him adrift. Burying him deep in the avalanche’s onrush. Trapped in a sobbing, shrieking, bitter sadness. Bloodied fists pounding on the walls, a thrashing body yearning to escape yet with nowhere to go. Helpless, furious, and terrified, a mad dog ready to spin and bite. He knew it, this blazing rage. Knew it all too well.

_A broken heart._

Solas struggled forward.

Why hadn’t he felt these raging emotions before? Why hadn’t he seen it when they were together in the Fade?

 _Don’t leave me alone!_ That was the magic’s cry. _Please!_ It begged. _Please, don’t leave me!_ Destructive rage ready, willing, and able to swallow the world. Spun wildly out of control. _Look at me!_ It sobbed, just a child. _Why do you always go? Don’t you love me? You said you loved me! You did! You promised! Please!_

He blinked, staring down at his hands, and the ice climbing up his arm.

_Mamae, please!_

The door to his left banged open, men’s bodies thrown across the cold stone in a spray of red. Had there been a door? He hadn’t seen it. A white halla leapt out after them, silver hooves slamming down onto the first’s chest. She pranced, driving her hooves down wildly until the man’s body was nothing but a pulpy red smear on the floor.

_Come back!_

Instead of a halla, he saw a child of five. Head covered by a thatch of orange hair, she stood alone in a small, dark room. Bloody fingers covered her face, specs of bright red blood trickling down her cheeks and mingled with tears as she wept into her hands.

 _Apae._ The child whimpered. _Mamae._

“Vhenan,” Solas whispered, recognizing the halla from his dream. Distantly, he knew he should be more concerned with Dirthamen. His lips cracked. More concerned with where the Evanuri had gone. Concerned with his surviving following, that he was now in competition for those few survivors and that many loyalties were now suspect.

The halla lifted her glorious head. Ears twitching, she glanced at him. His gaze met large blue-white eyes. She exhaled a long puff of steam through delicate nostrils. It froze immediately, crackling into ice and fell to the hard ground. She pawed at a pulpy mass of skin, shattered metal, and bloodstained dirt.

Solas stepped forward. “Eirwen.”

Her head jerked up, eyes widening, and she took a hesitant step back.

“You are unused to this form,” he said quickly, lifting both his hands. “Your magic, it is no longer controlled. You must let me help you, vhenan.”

The halla’s hooves lifted and she snorted angrily. Her nostrils flared. Tail lifting, she wrenched back on her hindquarters. Cold wind howled in response as flurries filled the tunnel, blowing vengefully into his eyes.

He banished them with a wave of his hand, ending the cold’s hungry grip on his armor. _She is not listening._ These were not the actions of a woman in control, but rather an animal.

The halla squealed in response. Slamming her hooves into the ground, she launched back up into a threatening half-rear.

_She can however feel me when I use my magic._

And it clearly upset her as well.

 _No,_ he corrected, _she is angry._

“Cole!” he called.

The spirit boy materialized at his side.

“Can you aid her?” he asked. “Assist her in remembering herself?”

Cole glanced at him, blinking his huge yellow eyes. “Who, Solas?” he asked blankly, clearly perplexed. “Who must I aid?”

Solas glanced at him, surprised. Could he not see her? Not even when she stood before him, crying out in agony.

The halla bugled, pawing the ground. Snow swirled around her, and the temperature dropped lower still. Twisted horns, pure and clear as crystal shone brightly. Blood dripped from silver hooves. Skin on her flank shuddered, coat glimmered a bright pure white.

All wrong for tropical Tevinter.

“Solas?”

Cracks shuddered through the walls, spanning over head. The cold had taken root in the stone, fractured it. Soon it would spread, perhaps to the whole of the coliseum or further into the city. Those of Tevinter were not prepared for a sudden hypothermic onslaught brought on by a frigid Frostback winter. Those who remained within the walls might already be freezing to death. He grit his teeth. _We are running out of time._

“Ir abelas, vhenan,” Solas said. With Mythal’s strength flowing through him, he could stop her. Put her to sleep. It was a simple spell. He’d need not even lift his hands. His eyes glowed bright blue. “This will only hurt for but a moment, perhaps not even at all.”

The halla threw her head high. Bright, hot white blue light bloomed in her irises.

They stared at each other.

Then, instead of relaxing, instead of slumping, instead of releasing her form, she let out another high pitched squeal and wheeled.

_Terrified._

“Eirwen!”

She bounded away in a blaze of blue-white light, snow swirling about her and padding her way. Racing through the far opening, she blasted open the stout wooden doors leading into the arena. Hooves pounding the dirt as she leapt out onto blood soaked, fire charred sands.

Solas hurried after her.

“Solas!” Cole yelled.

His eyes narrowed. Helping Cole understand what was happening could wait, Eirwen could not. His jaw clenched, cheek muscle twitching as he strode toward the arena. Worries whirled through his mind, each building off the last to strengthen his raging inner storm.

Solas knew he had cast the spell perfectly. _She resisted it._ Impossible! It should have knocked her into a nice, easy sleep. Yet it hadn’t. She ignored it as if it had not existed. No mortal mage could have resisted, not without incredible will and mental fortitude. Even one who had that, for them overcome his will was impossible.

 _When the time for a decision came, she made none._ Command’s voice echoed in his mind. _She commanded the world to bend instead._

 _Eirwen is an abomination now, a wounded joining of spirit and mortal._ No matter how strong it made her, she could not wield the strength equivalents of the elvhen joined with the Fade as he was. She did not dare channel such magic; and even if she somehow could, she lacked the knowledge necessary to wield it safely. She might seem passably immortal, but she was not… could not be elvhen. _Certainly not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been distracted lately by my day job so that's why this chapter took a little while to get up. I haven't abandoned it, I've just been focusing on other activities that make me money. This isn't my best chapter, but I figured I'd outline Tan a little more. Solas is going to be faced with a hard choice soon.
> 
> It's all starting to come to a head. I hope you enjoyed!


	19. Chapter 19

Solas chased Eirwen into the empty arena, avoiding frozen corpses on the smoking stands. He needn’t raise his eyes to see the massacre left behind by the dragon. Or the fallen bodies of those dressed for tropical weather, who did not run quickly enough before the blizzard began.

The halla moved as a silver blur, blending into the snow. Flurries stung his eyes, cascaded across his sense of smell. He saw nothing, smelled nothing but white. He heard only the hoofbeats’ ringing bells.

He did not know how she avoided his spell.

He intended to discover how.

Ice rose around the ring in gleaming spires, winding up into the sky. Silver-gray clouds twisted in a spiral overhead, blocking out the sun. The crying of the child lingered in his ears, sobs carried on the howling wind.

Solas pressed frozen lips together, drifts rolling against his sabatons. Snow weighed him down, drew him in. Deeper and deeper as the white pressed around him. It blanketed his senses, blinded his vision. He was buried in it. Swallowed by it.

Pounding down upon his shoulders, weighing heavy.

Hands ready to grip his ankles and drag him under.

Frozen to the bone.

 _No,_ he told himself, _no, this is wrong._

Millennia after millennia of dealing with spirits, he would not be fooled by a young one. No matter how close it came to his heart.

No matter who it had been.

Solas slowed and came to a stop, drawing himself upright. Breath escaped his lips in hot puffs, cold rattling his teeth. An expanse of tundra spread out before him, an endless flat plain of white snow. Blue-white ice creaked under his feet, and his noted the glaciers rising in the distance. Magic buzzed about his fingertips, but it was bound inside him.

He could not summon it and it did not warm him.

Now, he understood why.

_Mindscape._

They had left Tevinter far behind them.

This frozen world was the spirit’s territory, a representation of it’s inner self. It’s psyche. Instead of freezing Norba, she brought this place forth into a space parallel to reality. The mindscape leaked across into the physical world. No different than a summoning.

This was Eirwen now. Instead of warm summer sunlight, she was this expansive, creeping, bitter cold.

Slowly, Solas followed the halla. Allowing himself a more leisurely pace as he gave chase. Now inside her world, he was no longer in danger of losing her and the fright he might did more to ensure he would than it aided him.

 _I must be calm,_ he reminded himself. _I must be patient._

If he was to discover how this transformation had occurred, he could not afford to spook her. Not when she was in so fragile a state. If he drove her further, if she kept running, then there was a chance she would embrace this other side completely.

_And then she shall never return to me._

His hands clenched, and he tucked them into the small of his back.

If he moved slowly, if he proceeded carefully, there was a chance he could bring her back. _For a time, if only a short one._ Should he chase her, she would only run. Further, farther, and faster than before. A contrary woman, his love, no less and no more. If he remained calm, opportunity might present itself. If he acted hastily as he had in the past, then he’d only further damage the reasons why he came.

Frigid air chilled his lungs as he inhaled another deep breath.

The white halla surged ahead, bounding lightly across the tundra. She moved with dizzying, supernatural speed as she leapt toward a distant gray horizon. A red trail of blood left behind by bloody silver hooves.

In her domain, she was unfettered by ice and snow.

Solas walked after her, each step dragging him down. Snow crunching underneath his boots, pushing his way through the deepening snow. He sank from ankle to knee deep, then to his thighs, then almost his waist. Air froze within his lungs. His legs ached, toes sodden as melted snow coalesced at the bottom of his boots. Bits of fabric sneaking out from under his armor froze to his skin. Breath puffed from between frozen lips in a cloud of steam.

It was uncomfortable, but he had experienced far worse. As true awakenings went, this one so far proved only mildly inconvenient. He suspected, however, if she wished it so then she could transform this unpleasant winter into one much more terrifying.

There was a chance too, were the mindscape outside her control, that it could happen entirely by accident.

And, for the moment, determining her safety was far more important than any inconvenience to himself.

He continued on.

An upwards glance caught on white fur and large, liquid blue eyes.

_She has returned._

The halla stood on the drift above him, her head tilted slightly, both ears directed toward him. Pink nostrils twitched. Her left leg lifted delicately off packed snow, a sign of injury. Then her head lowered, long elegant neck extending. Eyes squeezed shut, she shook out her body, and sneezed a derogatory sneeze in his direction.

His frozen lips pulled right into a smile.

The expression was entirely Eirwen.

 _In only a few moments, an impression of undeniable majesty is entirely undone._ His smile widened. _Yet, she is as always comfortably herself._

While the iced tundra surrounding them displayed phenomenal power, she appeared to be nothing more than a normal halla. The dichotomy she long clung to followed her into this new existence, all her terrifying mystical strength weighted by a deeply flawed elf driven by conviction and who often proved far too mortal. She desired to be no more than any other, saw herself as no one's better. She became a halla no more than a natural halla; without even the good sense to claim the color gold. Though to name herself hanal’ghilan would be no act of ego or pride, but rather the truth.

Snow whirled about the halla, twisting drifts in a spray of dazzling white diadems. It dissipated with another gust, flattening out the snow in waves. Silver-white hair cascaded down bare shoulders, turquoise sheer silk draped loosely across a thin body.

Eirwen stood there; a linen dress, partially transformed, swirled about her. Skin bleached to a pure porcelain white, the same as her hair and just as devoid of color. Small chin lifted defiantly. Blue eyes glittered as similar silver light blazing from her pores. Hair curled about round cheeks, full ruby lips pursed irritably together. Black lashes narrowed, reducing mesmerizingly ice-blue irises to slits.

His gaze caught on a pair of silver horns twining off her forehead.

Heart sinking into the cold pit of his stomach, Solas swallowed. He doubted those could be removed now. They were part of her, just as the halla’s spirit had become an expression of her soul. _With each transition, I suspect she grows less mortal._ With nothing to bind her to the world, it was only a matter of time before she turned to spirit and disappeared into the Fade completely.

_Always a creature of extremes, always without balance._

Her center had fractured long before they met. A deep and divisive flaw in her personality, her inability to accept the world and the way she passionately threw herself from cliffs. He understood her lack of patience, how it debilitated, and the mistakes it wrought.

Whatever Eirwen Lavellan had become, she was now truly beyond mortal.

“Is that truly how you see me?” Eirwen’s voice rang across the snow packed tundra. “Is a frightened, broken child all I am to you, Solas?”

“Nae, vhenan,” he said. “I would not love you as I do if I believed you were a child.”

She flinched. Her head turned, she stared angrily at the snow.

He stepped forward. “I regret only the path my actions caused you to take.”

Eirwen straightened and he watched her clench the fingers of her left hand. A projection of light, it flickered subtly beneath the faint light cast by the overhead sun. “It’s too late now.”

“I know,” he replied softly.

“Then why are you here?” She stalked toward him with winds howling at her back. “Why do you keep following me?”

“Because I love you,” he replied steadily. “Because I regret what I have done, and were events different what I would not be required to do.”

Eirwen came to a stop before him, staring up with chilling rage. Her blue eyes flashed with an inner blue glow, like the sun catching water beneath a sheet of ice. “If you hadn’t done it, then I wouldn’t exist.”

Solas smiled slightly. Her logic and reasoning often infuriated him, yet he could not help but admire it. Eirwen had grown so quickly over the past three years, and it was often difficult to remember he had known her for little more than five years.

“Either way, the point is moot.” He heard the underlying exasperation. “You did it, it’s done.”

He sighed. “It is true.”

“Time after time, we dance this dance. You express your regret, you hurt me, then walk away to continue your path, and return when you need to absolve your conscience.”

“I do not ask your forgiveness, vhenan.”

A white eyebrow arched. “Did I suggest you wanted my forgiveness?”

“No.” His hands rose, settling in to cup her face. A mad desire struck him, one so utterly inappropriate he could not fight it. Nor did it stop him from leaning forward or covering her warm lips with his frozen ones.

Eirwen melted against him.

He pulled her close.

She leaned into the kiss, deepening it as her lips parted. His arm cinched her waist. Her hand settled on his chest. Standing on her tiptoes to draw him in, she sighed softly against his mouth.

“I’ve realized something important,” Eirwen murmured..

His lips lingered on hers, and felt the tension flow out of him. “As expected, I suppose.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Ill-attempted rescues seem to be your version of absolution.”

He kissed her warmly. “I came only to review your intentions.”

She snorted. “Of course, you never apologize. Not truly. There’s always justification, followed by judgement. You repay one act with another as a means of making amends.”

“I suppose that is one way to view my recent actions.”

Eirwen frowned. “I’m not looking for your approval, Solas.”

“I did not believe you would,” he said. “You do not have it, in either case.”

She rolled her eyes, laying her right hand flat on his chest. An electric surge rippled through him. Given the flood of ambient magic surrounding them, they might as well been naked. “I hate you.”

He smiled wryly, “had events been different, I might take offense. As they are, I expected this to be the natural outcome.”

“Natural outcome?” Eirwen’s mouth quirked, irritated. “You threw me from the Fade because I made you angry.”

Intentionally, he suspected. “Far more than angry,” he corrected, “you drove me to a fury. A point, I admit, few reach easily.” Though that did not account for his actions in response to said anger. He still bore the brunt of that responsibility.

Eirwen snorted. “Is that what you think?” Then, she smiled. “I hate to disappoint you, Solas, but all that’s required is informing you that you’ve made a catastrophic error.”

His mouth tightened. “For what happened in the Fade, I am forced to admit that I was wrong in my assertions. Ir abelas, vhenan. I came to make amends.”

Eirwen’s head tilted, right eyebrow arched. “Attempting to control me with a spell is your version of an apology?”

“No,” he replied. “It was an attempt to protect you.” Thumbing her cheek, he pressed his lips into a thin line. “Though I see now, such a decision may have been in error. Again, I must apologize for my haste.”

“Why does attempting to protect me always involve you attempting to subvert my free will? Why does it always involve you making decisions for me?”

Solas sighed, shoulders slumping. He could not deny that truth.

She glanced away with another sigh, eyes squeezing shut.

Solas kissed her forehead, kissed her cheek, and reclaimed her mouth when it entered his reach. Everything about their embrace was wrong; but as the shreds of his self-control gave way, he found he did not care.

Eirwen let him pull her tight. As she was now, her spirit melded around him. An experience far closer to what he had always dreamed they might share. When their flesh was more than flesh, but rather an expression of soul. When the sensation of total intimate connection numbed out both separation and loss.

His mouth moved against hers, breathlessly encouraging more.

It had been so long since he felt complete. Walking away carved out a piece of his heart, one he dared not admit even in his most private moments. Coupled with the fears and responsibilities which kept him from committing, his experience with her was fraught with brief glimpses, hidden depths shadowed by could bes, maybes, and might have beens.

 _Banalvhen_ , Tan and the others called these modern cousins. A Shadow People separate from themselves.

He had never seen her clearly, never truly known her.

He experienced the whole of her being now. Thoughts and emotions hidden no longer by a half-formed spirit, seeing the Fade only through heavy lidded eyes.

She was a shining star, a glittering diamond previously hidden by surrounding rock.

He saw her lost mortality. Her spirit’s gradual downward slide into what it meant to be more than mortal, what it meant to be separate from those she’d previously called friends. Her struggle to maintain compassion as her grip on reality loosened. The desire to protect them, even as she was required to keep her distance in a world which could not possibly understand.

Abomination? That was a lie. There was no spirit trapped within her.

No one other than herself.

Where Mythal had once bound him out of the Fade, he saw now that she had been freed into it. An open wound cut directly through the Veil itself. Except, unlike Corypheus, she contained this wound within her spirit.

A process, he suspected, similar to how Eirwen had once closed many similar tears. This time, however, instead being given an anchor by chance, she’d become the Anchor itself. Imperfect, perhaps, but still an incredible achievement.

_One which could not be accomplished alone._

His hand cupped her cheek, tongue sliding between her lips.

She sighed softly, frosty lashes sweeping his skin.

There was a ritual which could save her. One Mythal performed on him long ago, when he’d first taken a body. The first usage of the vallaslin before the Evanuris perverted it into the markings of slaves. Used then to bleed off power into another, to aid in the transition as one became accustomed to their new form.

Eirwen gasped.

His tongue pulsed deeper, arms tightening around her waist.

He destroyed any chance of saving her when he removed the brands. His geas left her skin and spirit impervious to re-application. He lacked the means to save her, actions determining no other could do the same.

Again, he ensured the destruction of that which he held most dear.

Solas bent Eirwen back, as he once had during their first kiss in the Fade so many years ago. Deepening the kiss, he rolled his teeth over her lower lip and sucked it into his mouth.

She responded eagerly, arms cinched around his neck. Drawing him down, she pulled herself closer. Mouth parted wider. Fingertips buzzed on his cheek.

It had been too long, he knew, and he was easily distracted by her touch. Hungered for it like a starving elvhen. And it was starvation, of kind.

In the time of Elvhenan, the sustenance of the spirit had as great importance as that which fed the flesh. Love, curiosity, all forms of emotional fulfillment were encouraged. To strengthen one’s spirit, one must feed it and he had restrained himself from that which his heart desired for far too long.

Eirwen arched beneath him, icy surface giving way to the hungry fires of passionate heart.

She felt it too, Solas realized. All loneliness, rage, and desire magnified. Caught in the same tangled yearnings, swept away by a raging torrent of emotions.

Eirwen had always kept her emotions in a stranglehold, strove to maintain a logical and rational outlook unfettered by bias. Such a disruption in control lead to chaos. As winter opposed summer, ice suppressed heat. When the strangled sparks burst into a wildfire, she could not handle the heat. She responded, predictably, with yet another extreme.

But Elvhen existed in balance.

Where the Veil now stood, they once did. Forged between spirit and flesh. One fed into the other in an unending cycle of renewal. To survive this transition, Eirwen’s frozen winter must melt into spring.

Raging fire burned just beneath his grip, angry enough to burn down the world.

 _No,_ he thought as her arms drew him closer, _such a transition could not happen alone._

Command’s story was flawed.

There was another, one older and more powerful who had guided her down this path. Another of the Elvhen, perhaps even a member of the Evanuris.

The thought chilled him.

Someone, one of his own, aided her in this experiment.

Eirwen froze in his arms. Eyes opening wide, staring up at him. Caught somewhere between hurt, confused, furious, and desperately desirous.

Stiffly, she jerked away.

A step backwards reinstated distance. There, he suspected, to fight the magnetic emotions intent on drawing them back together.

Solas wished he were grateful for such distance.

In the end, Eirwen was correct. Whatever passed between them here in this place was inevitably for naught. He had his duty to the Elvhen. Once free of the snow, he would leave her again and return to his path.

Arms crossing over her chest drew him from his thoughts. Her head turned sideways. Gaze cast downward on the snow. The sheets cracked beneath her bare feet.

“No,” Eirwen whispered.

“I see now that I have been in error. You could not have done this alone.” He took a cautious step forward. “Who has aided you, vhenan?”

She glanced up, brilliant blue eyes slanted beneath long black lashes. Her head tilted. The corner of her mouth quirked into a slight smile. “Who do you think?”

Solas sighed. “That is no answer.”

Eirwen shrugged. “Not a good one, no.”

He had to give her credit for near-perfect recall and the many times she’d thrown his own words back at him. “When I redirected the Qunari to Tevinter, I hoped it might give you a few years of relative peace before the end.”

“Did you truly expect I’d simply accept my time was over? That I would give up?” Eirwen studied him for a long moment, sharp blue eyes glittering with an inner light. “Or did you believe I was another Corypheus, that when left with no options I would never be capable of challenging you?”

Gut knotting, Solas wondered at her certainty. It sounded like arrogance, yet she was proving far more resourceful than anticipated. It might simply be honest fact. “You still cannot,” he countered.

“No,” she agreed. “Not alone.”

He froze.

Memory returned to Dirthamen standing amidst Tevinter nobles and commoners walking off in a fog. The canny, knowing smile on his lips.

_No._

“You once said that the time has come for hard choices,” Eirwen said. “Since you left, I have been forced to make difficult compromises.”

Solas took another step forward. “Tell me it was not you who released one of the Evanuris. Tell me, you did not release Dirthamen.”

She smiled and spread her hands. “The enemy of my enemy.”

“Is also your enemy!” he snapped.

Eirwen laughed. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“You do not know him! You cannot know all he has done or all the suffering he might inflict!”

“I do know,” she said softly, “because I was prepared. I understand the costs of this path, vhenan. I understand what I must give up, what I must become, and how I must die in order to see my world safeguarded from your chaos.”

Solas paused. “I will forgive you for this,” he said. “If only because you cannot possibly understand what it is you have done.”

“Don’t.” Eirwen lifted her chin. “I’m reordering the board, Solas,” she said. “This is not be the world you knew. Soon, it will not even be the one you’ve grown accustomed to. War has arrived on winter winds.”

She was being honest, he knew, but also misleading as he had once been on the Steppes of Vir Ghilan. Few plans could be gleaned from generalities.  

“I will give you this.” Her mouth quirked. “Dirthamen is not the only member of the Evanuris to have escaped your trap.”

He winced.

“There are two others hidden in the lonely, forgotten places of Thedas.” Her gaze turned westward. “You could find them if you look.”

He frowned.

A small, hollow laugh escaped her. “And if you don’t, someone else could.”

“You, vhenan?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “All I did was move a piece for another, an exchange for a favor. What they do is up to them and that is I cost I will bear.” Eirwen sighed. “However, I am not alone in what I know and I am not the only one in need of aid. Thedas is not yet done with the Evanuris, and they are not yet done with the elves.”

His frown deepened. “You spoke of a favor. What did you receive in return?”

Her hands spread wider. “You’re standing in it.”

Glancing down at the snow packed about his legs, Solas swallowed.

“Don’t you know where we are?” she asked.

Solas glanced across the snows. A frown creased his brow. _The Fade._ No, the feel of this place was not quite right. He stood as if in a pocket, a parallel to another dimension, much like the Crossroads themselves. “I want to say it is the Fade, but I know it is not.”

“We’re within the Veil itself,” Eirwen replied.

He stepped back.

“There are gaps in the Veil remaining from where Corypheus damaged it,” she said. “Not enough for anything to break through, but spaces between spaces where one might slip in unnoticed.”

“Then, I suspect, this place is the creation of whoever has helped you enter it.”

“You’d be wrong,” she said. “The knowledge was the price, the creation itself is mine.” She shrugged. “An accidental discovery while pursuing those who might aid me in stopping you.”

Solas’ smile widened. Between the frustration, the fear, and the anger over her ignorance, he could not help but be impressed. Eirwen had always done whatever was necessary for the good of all, sacrificing her own needs when they got in the way.

He could not be surprised, not truly that his warnings had fallen on deaf ears.

“Of course,” he murmured.

“You should understand the dangers of knowledge combined with a formidable intellect, Solas. Consider this my last gift to you.”

He frowned. “I do, but I also do not understand. You intend to give me this place?”

“No, the gift is knowledge of its existence,” she said, her eyes rose to the sky. “I hope you succeed in returning here before you bring the Veil down.”

“And if I do not?”

“You’ll find a rather nasty surprise awaiting you,” Eirwen replied. “You, the Elvhen, and all the other false gods.” Her mouth yanked sideways. “A slow arrow, if you like.”

Solas crossed the gap between them. Snow crunched beneath his boots.

He saw it now. This place was not merely a mindscape, but a world threaded into the underlying fabric of the Veil. It fed into the Fade itself, timeless and unchanging. When the Veil fell, it would rush ahead empowered by the raw chaos on both sides and bury all in an onrushing avalanche. The Elvhen would inherit nothing but a desolate frozen wasteland.

A slow arrow.

Defeated through cunning and scorched earth.

 _No,_ he decided. If this was her plan, she would not have told him.

A true threat, perhaps, as Eirwen did nothing by half measures but a distraction all the same. She was not inherently honest or open, she hoarded secrets. Despite a year together, he knew nothing about her background, childhood, or life before the Inquisition beyond what he had witnessed. He doubted any knew the extent of what she planned, for she doled out information cautiously and with a careful hand.

Whatever her true card was, she kept it hidden.

His smile widened. He couldn’t help it, he thought as he reached out to grasp her shoulders. He filled with the strangest of emotions for one born in this shadow world.

Pride.

“You are so beautiful,” Solas murmured.

Eirwen frowned.

She expected him to be angry.

He expected to be angry. Yet, it did not come. Their separation was painful enough.

“Solas,” she said.

“I know,” he sighed. “I cannot help it, vhenan. You are the embodiment of what I hoped the People would be, and yet we must be enemies. I see the irony in it. Still, there is nothing to be done.”

“You could walk away,” she said.

“I cannot.”

“I said before that I agree with your sentiment and your goal in restoring Thedas to what it was. I know the world must change.” Eirwen tilted her head. Her hand rose, fingertips brushed his cheek. “Our differences have only been about how. It isn’t your right, or anyone’s to decide who lives or how we live. We need to determine it for ourselves.”

“You are close to becoming Evanuris yourself,” he countered.

“And you’re behaving like one,” she snapped. “We have this same argument over and over. We both want to convince the other we’re right, but we’ll never be satisfied!”

He kissed her forehead.

Eirwen sighed. “You’re so stubborn.”

“I am rather set in my ways,” he agreed.

“You’re an old man complaining that the sun doesn’t shine brightly enough,” she growled as he wrapped his arms around her.

His nose buried in her white hair, and he inhaled the scent of freshly fallen snow. His lips pulled into a smile. “And you are a foolish child too quick to run before you learn to walk.”

Her cheek rested on his chest.

“I am sorry, vhenan,” he murmured. “Whatever you do, wherever you go, and whatever you become, I will not stop loving you.”

“I’ll see you again at ma halamshiral,” Eirwen said.

He swallowed. He knew it was goodbye.

He knew also that he could accept it for now, but not forever. Regardless of what must be.

He did not deserve her, yet his heart could never let her go.

"I know," he murmured.

The ice world evaporated around them and they were back in the frozen arena.

Eirwen gave him a hard shove.

Solas stumbled, eyes locked on hers as she lifted her left hand. The sunlight glinted through it, turning her fingers to a ghostly blue. Snow coated the sand in a thick sheet of white. Charred, frozen bodies hung off the stands. Red blood stained the walls. The burning tropical sun had no effect on the winter wasteland.

“A preview to the white frost,” Eirwen said.

Then, she snapped her fingers.

The building cracked, stone shattering, collapsing beneath its weight as the wooden beams gave way. The seats creaked inward. Snow and sand falling away into the chambers below the arena. Walls tumbled. The boxes at the top of the walls crashed into the remaining sand, sank into the depths. Tattered flags in gold, red, and violet fluttered through the air. Marble shuddered, chipped into shards. It broke apart under the sunlight, glittering and gleaming like diamonds. 

The world disappeared in a cloud of dust.

And when he looked back, Eirwen was gone.

 

***

 

Tan met Delwyn in at the edge of a moonlit grove, far to the south in lands which once belonged to June. Her fingers brushed the rough bark of a pine, lips pursed. Fen’Harel did not come this way these days, but there were still no guarantees.

“The messages have been sent,” Delwyn said. “We are ready.”

“Good,” she said, her eyes flicking to the small pond on the furthest edge. “Then, our plans must also move in accordance. Prepare the hit.”

“Fen’Harel will not forgive this,” Delwyn said. “He left specific orders that the Inquisitor was not to be harmed.”

“Leave me to deal with him,” Tan replied calmly, far more so than she felt.

“Yes, but--”

“You have seen him, moaning and melancholy, distracted and brooding.”

He nodded swiftly. “I have.”

“If we are to succeed, this cannot be allowed to continue.”

She knew what had happened to Felassan, knew too that she was no more valuable. The Dread Wolf axed every danger to him, every perceived threat to his rule, and every betrayal. _Except those close to his heart._

Tan had been patient with him. Yet three years of this was three years too long. For the good of all, distractions must be purged. _Even if I am purged in the process._

With his girl-child gone, Solas would have no reason to linger. Fen’Harel would return in force.

Any price was worth that.

The Elvhen must rise again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I love so much about writing different perspectives is being able to see the different perspectives of characters, how they see themselves and how they see others.
> 
> Solas is a character of distance, he strives to maintain distance and struggles with it. He thinks about Eirwen in a variety of ways and it's fun to write his slowly shifting perspective from her being an object and into a person. Solavellan is a difficult romance for me to write from this perspective because Solas has a tendency to reduce those around him into objects, easily quantified, cataloged, and set aside. He doesn't mean to do it, but he does it anyway. While there's always a "hahren" joke to be had here and there, he's never truly seen himself as her teacher or Eirwen as his student. 
> 
> To be a student would imply that she was a whole person like himself. Part of his journey isn't just learning that the people of modern Thedas are people, but that they matter, that they can learn. That they have the potential to be equals.
> 
> It's fun, if difficult, to write him in comparison to Dirthamen.
> 
> All three, he, Eirwen, and Solas (and Falon'din) end as mirrors of each other. Solas is spirit while Dirthamen ironically represents mortality with Eirwen caught between them. Different journeys to understanding.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I have a soft spot for Solas and Eirwen, even when they're fighting.


	20. Chapter 20

Eirwen stumbled through the snow, eyes fixed on the door her cabin. Her body ached, legs trembled, arms hung heavily at her sides. Skin felt stretched wide and thick, so tight it didn’t fit her body. A weave of cloth stretched to the breaking point.

Cornelia was dead. Norba’s coliseum decimated. The market destroyed. 

The slaves free.

Her message sent.

Those who chose to move on to her small settlement in the great tree in the Samhal valley would be arriving shortly. The others were en route to Kirkwall, from there they’d find ship and find themselves returned to their homes.

_ Solas. _

She swallowed, mouth dry.

What was there to say about Solas?

Another conversation where she let her feelings get the better of her, where she accomplished nothing. Handed him a distraction, several months worth of tenuous effort. Accomplished on the back of Mythal’s knowledge, her experience, and applied theory from her grimoire. The work was hers, Eirwen knew. Made with her own hands. The application hers, and the idea of utilizing her own scorched earth policy.

She could claim it as hers, but every step which went into it done after it was explained. Crafted from blueprints. Built on the hope Solas cared about the future his people would inherit. That her construction was clever enough to keep him occupied. That it would buy her time.

Eirwen sighed. Lifting her left hand, she paused. Studied the glimmering blue fingers, and sighed again. She dropped it. Raising her right hand, she scrubbed her forehead.

She didn’t really know what she was buying time for. Exchanging favors for time, bought to make a plan.  _ Maybe I should’ve bought a plan. _

Her lips curled wryly, warm buzz of their last kiss lingering on her lips.

Yes.

Maybe she should.

Eyes dropping to the snow, she choked back yet another sigh.

It never felt like her words reached him. Every contentious conversation involved them talking past each other. He stubbornly wanting it one way, his way. As if it was the only way.

_ There is never a single way. When there is an inevitable destination, a multitude of paths lead to it with their various outcomes. _

It was a First’s role to maintain the required distance and advise their Keeper, if they believed they were too close and could see only one solution.

_ Keeper raised me to First because I saw the world with eyes unclouded by hate, prejudice, or bias. _

A sob choked in her throat.

Eirwen set her jaw.

She was done with tears.

If delaying the Wolf was her best option, then she would delay him. Use the time she had to cover a millennia of ground. Grow her power so they might turn back the Blight, and return it to the Void. Hold the world together so as few possible died when the Veil fell. Carving chunks away slowly, in pieces, and, with Mythal’s guidance, blending The Fade with the land itself.

A single valley unshadowed.

_ Samhal. _

And all it cost was her heart.

Staring irritably at the cabin door, Eirwen itched at her chest. A hollow, empty pain reverberated in the empty spaces inside her. Both figurative and literal, she supposed.

The Dalish believed the land took what it wanted, part of the cost in surviving the wilds. The clever and resourceful could always make their way, but not without some price paid. As the Dread Wolf once gnawed off his tail to escape the hound who chased him, so must a Dalish be prepared to pay a stiff price for mistaken pride and overestimated skill to ensure a continued existence.

She’d learned long ago that it was not the appearance of power, but control which most terrified. For one who believed they knew everything, who saw themselves as untouchable such a hard, sharp kick brought them crashing to earth.

It was a Keeper’s place.

_ And like in the story, when the Keeper’s hound taught the Dread Wolf a lesson, I suppose it’s my turn. _

Iseth, their First had taught the stories as rigid and unbending. The Dread Wolf a boogeyman creeping in the dark, snapping up nasty and disobedient children to devour. Cast them deep into the wilds and the marshes, where none would ever find them.

Iseth’s stories had a ring of truth to them. Though the First was the one who’d “lost” her in many a dank tomb, left her behind for the giant spiders and undead. Who claimed that they were simple lessons to test her ability to survive. Then lied to Deshanna, and told her that it was Eirwen who wandered off.

In the end, no mythical beast that stole her away or cast her into the marsh. Just an elven woman; who used her own stories as a crux to justify the dark stain on her soul.

Deshanna taught the stories as twofold in meaning. Parables for Clan success and survival in a harsh and bitter world. The tricks of the Dread Wolf, she said, taught watchfulness, self-sufficiency, and humility. When they had nothing left, the cunning sustained them. If one could outwit the Dread Wolf, they could do the same to any human fool.

Eirwen smiled.

Through repeated experience, she learned to like the tombs and the spiders. Iseth closing stone doors behind her became a comfortable routine. She discovered which food the spiders preferred. Deepstalkers, mostly. Elven children not high on their list unless they was only the undead to eat. Learned to boil mushrooms and fungus, climb rock walls, to follow the flow of air. Trust in the direction it led to the forest above as her father had taught her.

Learned watchfulness, self-sufficiency, and humility.

_ No matter how dark it seems, there’s always a way out of a trap. _

Whether it was casting her lot in battle with the gods or finding her way through a dark cave, it didn’t matter. The impossible was within reach, if one had the strength to strive for it.

Slowly, Eirwen reached for the door to her cabin. Undid the latch. Pushed it open.

The door swung on its hinges with a slow, squealing creak.

She stepped inside.

Greeted not by the darkness she expected, but warm light. By A table again set with food, her books ordered, and her cabin floor clean of debris. More small round globes sat on wooden shelves, casting yellow splashes across the walls. And in the corner, reclined in a large egg-shaped chair, was Dirthamen.

He sat with left leg thrown across right knee, Flemeth’s grimoire in his lap, leafing through it. He wore a shirt of fine black linen, embroidered in silver thread, and breeches. A coat, similarly black, discarded across the chair to his left.

_ He’s wearing boots. _

Jaw clenching, Eirwen walked inside. She ignored her rumbling stomach, though the pangs stung and gaze returned to the steaming stew bowl.

“It isn’t poisoned.”

Startled, she glanced across the room.

He was staring at her. All high cheekbones, thin lips, and a sharp aquiline nose, somehow more heartwrenchingly handsome now than he’d been before. When he’d trapped her within his mind. The corner of his mouth flicked up into a casual smile.

Her heart thudded just a few beats faster.

“The food,” he said gently. “It isn’t poisoned. You can eat it. After skipping breakfast this morning, I suspect you haven’t had any meals all day.”

Eirwen opened her mouth, then closed it. He was right. “Breakfast? That was you?”

He inclined his head.

“And all this?” she asked, gesturing to the cabin. “Was it you too?”

He smirked. “Guilty.”

Her frown deepened. “Why?”

Dirthamen closed the grimoire with a flick of his wrist and set it aside. He stood smoothly, fluidly, with the more grace than the most practiced Orlesian courtier. The amused smile still fixed to his face. His eyes never left her. Then, he laughed. “Why not?”   

Eirwen stepped back. “Why not?” she repeated, feeling dumb. “It’s such a waste!”

“Need I a reason to bestow a kindness on a stranger?” he asked.

_ An attempted manipulation which won’t work, _ she thought fiercely.  _ I won’t be bought. _

She stalked forward until she reached him. Clenching her fists, Eirwen drew herself up to her full height. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know you.”

“In my time,” he said, “the starving did not waste food.”

“And in my time, an elf never eats anything doesn’t come from a trusted source.” Her eyes narrowed. “Especially when starving.”

Dirthamen chuckled.

Eirwen paused, surprised. Her eyes rose to his nose, then the golden irises set deeply above finely sculpted cheekbones. She remembered thinking Solas was tall, but her forehead barely reached Dirthamen’s chin.

He studied her silently.

Eirwen swallowed, suddenly unsure. Her feet shuffled, fingers longing to tug and itch at her pant legs. She felt six years old again, fighting back tears as she recited the Legend of the Bear to the First’s satisfaction. Receiving swat from a willow branch whenever she failed in memorization or pronunciation. Thin superficial wounds she’d be asked to heal later, if she wanted them to heal at all.

_ Iseth always was a bitch. _

But she was right.

With Solas, it hadn’t seemed real. With Mythal, she had been in the body of a human woman. Even the first time, with Dirthamen, had only been within his mind.

Yet here he stood, by the window in the light of her small cabin. A cabin now whole, with a roof that worked, and filled with luxurious furniture she hadn’t owned before yesterday.

Iseth might have called it a gift from the gods.

And Iseth would’ve been right.

A hiss stuck, caught in Eirwen’s throat. 

_ Only here, only now, only in this moment. _

She wondered if the God of Secrets would demand obeisance and gratitude for trinkets, like Iseth who spouted his praises.

“I never believed you were real,” Eirwen blurted.

Dirthamen raised an eyebrow, his lips twitched.

Clapping her right hand over her mouth, she blushed. 

_ Like a bad student desperate to be forgiven. _

Slowly, Eirwen drew herself up and lifted her chin. A few years of working with fussy nobles across Southern Thedas had left her prepared for anything. He was just another noble. Like a Magister. She could handle Magisters. She dealt with Mythal.

_ I was prepared for him last time. _

Taken by surprise, Iseth’s old stories might win out.

_ The gods would be so ashamed of you, Eirwen. You must study your letters, prove yourself of value to the Creators and to the Clan. You remember what happens to those who don’t earn their place. The useless are left to the cold and the wolves. _

Her jaw clenched, molars grinding together. He wasn’t a god. He was just an elf, maybe an ancient one like Solas but still... an elf. He wasn’t a disapproving nightmare conjured by horrible stories or designed to shame her into good behavior.

Flesh and blood could be dealt with.

She glared at him. “What do you want?”

Twitching lips yanked the left corner into a wry smile. Dirthamen spread a pair of elegant hands before him.

A gesture of entreaty, she realized.

“What else when a stranger wakes up in a strange land?” He tilted his head, black hair swirling loosely around his high forehead, cheekbones, and down about his shoulders. He wore a shirt of fine black linen, black breeches, and boots. “Sanctuary.”

Laughter caught in her throat. Eirwen swallowed it hastily.

_ I kissed Solas not four hours ago. _

Another bad decision on her part, but she couldn’t help it. Now, Dirthamen was asking her to protect him. Like another outcast in need of shelter, a safe place to weather the storm. A place where a person was free to make their own way by their own hands, had they the will and the cooperative spirit. He could not possibly want to live nowhere, far from the comforts of civilization.

She wasn’t even sure she did!

Eirwen’s lips twitched. “So, the God of Secrets is claiming to be a refugee?”

“Truthfully?” Dirthamen tilted his head with a lenient smile, he spread his hands. They were large hands, she noticed. “No.”

“No?” she asked, eyebrow lifting.

“No,” he repeated. “I could walk into any noble house on this continent’s forsaken mud heap, snap my fingers, and they’d fall to their knees.”

“That would be fairly obvious, wouldn’t it?”

His brows lifted, but the amused smile remained. “Would it?”

She frowned. “When Solas first woke, he was as limited as the rest of us.” 

“ _ Solas _ is a Somniari who spurns the use of blood magic. It limits his connection to only the Fade so as not to interfere with his ability to mold it, to give his desires shape,” Dirthamen countered. “Blood binds us to the physical, to what is mortal, what is real. He sees it as instilling boundaries, closing the mind to more radical ideas due to a preeminent focus on the flesh.” His mouth twitched, and for a moment his eyes leered, gaze brazenly racing the length of her body. “Despite what he believes, he is not alone in his assumption. Moreover, he is in this case correct. The more one draws upon this plane’s mortal lifeblood, the less power they will possess over the domain of spirits.”

Tugging at the gem at her throat, Eirwen frowned. “You said he was only partially right. Where is he wrong?”

“That it limits imagination,” he said. “In total, drawing on the Fade and on lyrium itself produces a more powerful result than the use of a single life.” He lifted a hand and held it palm out. “Or, it did. Fen’Harel was once a brilliant mage, powerful, capable, and in possession of a near limitless imagination. He and Falon’din, Elgar’nan, Mythal, Andruil, June, even little and loving Sylaise all far stronger than myself.” His lips quirked into a wry smile. “However, true creativity exists within limitations. The more powerful one is, the more wasteful they often become.” Golden eyes moved over her. “The less powerful, the more clever one must be. The younger, the more inventive.”

Eirwen’s frown deepened. “So, you’re saying that he’s used to working with more than he has?”

“He was used to working within different rules. Instead of adapting to them, he attempted to forcibly do what he always has. Accomplishing his goals required magic, more than he possessed. Unused to weakness, could do little more with it than an apostate mage of your time.”

She nodded, that made sense. It contextualized what Solas had told her. She remembered magic before Mythal opened her eyes. A trickling stream had no comparison to a rushing torrent, and neither dared compete with the ocean. If Solas was used to bathing in ocean’s water, she doubted he’d know how to conserve a bucketful.

“It’s a wonder he did so well,” Eirwen said.

“I doubt your people offered much in the way of a challenge,” Dirthamen replied. “However, in a world where the Fade itself is no longer the underlying fabric, he would find himself incredibly weakened.” His brows rose, and Eirwen felt his eyes tracing down the length of her neck to the slow pulse of blood moving beneath her skin. “I am not so foolish, and therefore not so limited.”

She lifted her chin. “You understand conservation?”

Dirthamen smiled, corners of his thin lips flicking upwards in a way that was almost conciliatory. “I am not in the habit of requiring large displays.” He chuckled. “A simple tug in the right place is more effective than a thousand thoughtless shoves.”

Swallowing, Eirwen refused the urge to take a step backwards. “Why not go to some noble’s castle, then? It’d be more comfortable.”

“Because,” he said calmly, slowly, carefully as if he were speaking to a small child. He advanced on her, golden gaze fixated on her eyes. “My ego does not require abasement in order to be satisfied.”

She stepped forward, her right hand rising to take hold of his. 

Surprisingly, he didn’t fight her. 

Eirwen turned it over, thumb running over the back of his knuckles thoughtfully. It was an odd feeling, touching him. Like Solas, she had a feeling he liked to talk. Yet, while more pointedly specific, she suspected he kept the more useful knowledge to himself. 

The answers which should’ve left her comfortable in his presence and built trust, served only to make her more uneasy. The fear knotting her stomach hadn’t fled, the comfortable nature of their interactions prickled her spine. The bit where she understood that she should be far more terrified of him than she was.

_ Maybe I’m just lonely. _ How long had she longed for someone to sit down and discuss this with her? Make sense of the confusion, rather than leave her scrambling in the dark?  _ I suppose that’s part of it too. _

“The great power of the Somniari is that the world can be remade as they envision it,” Dirthamen continued. “Their great weakness is they often fail to grasp its realities. Too distracted by the possibilities to see what those around them will not accept. Thus the new reality can be fought and rejected by the masses.” He chuckled. “And they are too egocentric to forgo their individual, competing, visions, especially when in competition.”

“You’re giving me what I want,” she said softly.  _ Dangerous to say it aloud. _ “What we want always comes with a hook.” Her eyes lifted to his golden ones, even as her thumb traced the outline of his fingers around their joints. “I see the bait. What’s your return?”

“I thought it to be obvious,” Dirthamen said, his smile grew fainter. A warm hand closed around hers. “I’ve no wish to be alone.” Golden irises glittered in the glow-light. “Neither do you.”

“You have followers still slumbering in the tomb where I found you,” Eirwen replied.

“And will be woken in due course,” he said. “Hardy, loyal, useful company all. I would trust them with my life.” He shook his head, “but they are followers not peers.”

“I’m Dalish!” she snapped. “A child! A shemlen!”

“What you did in the Tevinter City of Norba was no less than an act that proved yourself Evanura,” Dirthamen said. “As a maker of miracles, yours is a voice worth listening to. If our dear Fen’Harel cannot see it then he is a fool.”

“Solas isn’t…” Eirwen trailed off, then she sighed. “He doesn’t care much for much for your kind.”

Dirthamen smiled. “My kind? My kind is your kind.”

Her lips twitched. “I’m strong and people do follow me, but I’m no god.”

Dirthamen paused, studying her with his golden eyes. A frown marred his brow, then the corner of his mouth lifted and tugged into an easy smile.

“And what is a god?” he asked, though not unkindly.

Eirwen swallowed. Glancing away, her eyes found the floor. She didn’t enjoy feeling small and stupid, disliked uncertainty.  The answer was a hollowed out place inside her heart, and she didn’t know what it meant. Saying it felt far too egotistical. In the end, it was just magic.

“I didn’t do what I did for myself,” she said. “I did it because I wanted to save people, help them fight injustice. Prove Solas wrong so they could have a better world.”

Gentle fingers lifted her chin and she found herself staring into golden eyes. “I will tell you a great secret, Eirwen Lavellan,” he said, “perhaps the greatest of all those kept by the Evanuris.”

Her eyebrow arched.

“A god is a god when those who surround them believe they are.” He leaned forward. “Whether you take the religion which forms around you by the reins or not, there will be one. You cannot stop it. You cannot even truly control it. No matter how long or hard you attempt to educate, you shall always be bound by this simple fact.” He smiled. “Should they choose to worship you, there is nothing to be done. Nothing you say shall change it. That is the irony of godhood.” Dirthamen chuckled. “We are powerless.”

She frowned. “So, without the support of the people, you’d be powerless.”

“No,” he shook his head. “None can steal what is ours by right. We’d still be powerful and immortal, we might even be leaders, but we would not be  _ gods _ .”

“Oh,” Eirwen whispered.

“Fen’Harel has never understood faith is inspired,” Dirthamen said. “It cannot be forced. Coerced on occasion, perhaps, but it is given. Never taken.” He tilted his head, his smile widening. “You are powerful, but it is the will, the ability, and the manner in which you use it which inspires those who follow you.”

Eirwen nodded slowly. “So, what you’re saying is I have potential?”

Dirthamen laughed. It was a low, rough laugh. Warmly comforting for someone she knew she should fear. “My mother aids none but those who might be of use. The manner in which she does informs me of all I need to know.”

“Mythal worked with me because I had what she needed,” Eirwen replied, “but only because she was weak.”

“No,” he said. “She’d have taken you regardless. While capable of greatness, Mythal aided you because are young and ignorant. You possessed the potential to become the weapon she needed to assault the Heavens, to destroy us all. The intelligence to learn what was necessary and the capacity for independent action. You cannot understand how rare such a quality is, especially in one so young.”

She paused, swallowed. He still held her hand, enclosed it in warm fingers.

He shook his head. “She fed you knowledge with the intent to keep you shackled to her, never capable of growing into your own. She intended, perhaps still intends, to take your power for herself.”

“I figured,” Eirwen said. “Morrigan said as much when we encountered her in the Fade.” Not her potential, that Mythal was intentionally hiding information necessary to do more than what was allowed and ensured failure. Though, how could she know he wouldn’t do the same?  _ I suppose I don’t. _ “Though I can’t imagine what I’ve done is particularly impressive, other than surprise by the unexpected.”

“Because you are ignorant,” Dirthamen replied.

Her frown deepened.

“I am neither judging nor chastising,” he said. “It is a statement of fact. You cannot understand the depths of what has been lost.” He leaned a little closer. “You can, however, learn.”   


Eirwen opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t think of anything to say. It was what she had wanted to hear, gratifying. Yet, those words came from the wrong mouth. How could she trust anything handed over so easily? She couldn’t. Shutting her lips, she swallowed and waited for him to continue.

“Even in the cusp of youth, I see a power that would waken Elgar’nan in sweats.” His other hand rose, but he stopped short of her cheek. “In Elvhenan, I’d cut your life short before whatever master claimed you knew what you were.” His mouth quirked. “Be grateful to be born in this life, Renan.”

_ Renan. Voice. _ With that name, he intended for her to be his voice.  _ He has claimed you. _ Those were Mythal’s words.  _ Yours is the kind of mind which appeals to him most. _

It always came down to use and usury.

“Yes,” she spat. “Be grateful I was born when you need me.”

Golden irises drifted over hers. There was something in them, thoughtful, as if part of a consideration she didn’t quite understand. She could find nothing sexual in his appraisal, no obvious interest, yet her cheeks heated anyway.

“Yes,” Dirthamen said. “I need you.”

Her heart skipped. “For my strength?”

“For this,” his finger planted on her forehead.

His touch sent electric shivers racing over the surface of her skin. _ Mind? _ She almost shook her head.  _ No.  _ Being this close to him, it left her dizzy. It wasn’t magic, she didn’t think. Something else, something worse. Like an honest attraction. “My knowledge.” 

“What else?” he laughed. “While I could restore myself to my full strength in a few weeks, months at most, I know nothing of this new world.”

Eirwen exhaled slowly. “You could learn that from anyone.”

“Could I? Does another elven mage of your considerable ability exist? Do they also possess your experience in dealing with the disparate politics of multiple regions, factions, and religions of this current Thedas?”

“Fine,” she growled. “How do you plan to restore yourself?”

“Unlike Fen’Harel, I understand the necessity of contingencies.”

Again, she swallowed. Her mouth very dry. “I don’t suppose you’d like to elaborate.”

He smiled. “Agree to work with me and you will experience them first hand.”

“As a servant?”

“Did I not say I desired a peer?” He chuckled. “I want an equal.”

Eirwen frowned, her fingers slipped away from his fingers but he held her fast. Her gaze returned to his eyes. “That’s impossible.”

He leaned in closer. “Is it?”

She lifted her chin, heartbeat quickening. “When it comes to experience, the gap between us is too wide.”

“There are ways to overcome it.”

“I could never trust you,” she said. Golden eyes fixed on her, his lips all too close, and she half hated herself for not minding it. The electric thrill taking shape in her stomach sent another excited shiver racing through her.

“I do not expect you to,” he replied. “Only a fool gives theirs implicitly.”

“Then you plan to earn mine?”

“Is that not obvious, Renan?” he countered. “I plan to show you, through methodical and thorough action, that I will not recklessly squander such a gift should you choose to give it.”

Endless possibilities toyed at the edges of her mind. New plans already begun to formulate. Even if he did betray her, the reward in what she’d learn was more than worth the price.  _ I already sold my soul once to save my world, why not do it again? _ “How do I know you won’t betray me?”

“You do not,” he said with another smile. “I can only count upon a similar uncertainty.”

She answered his with a crooked one of her own. “I suppose that’s the half fun.”

He chuckled. Long black strands drifting around his cheeks, flowing over his shoulders and the loose black shirt.

“I’ll agree to it,” Eirwen said softly. “If you’ll swear, in blood, on the strongest oath you know.”

Golden eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. The smile on his lips flickered, not lessening, but widening. Wickedly, she decided. Her stomach clenched. Taken by the sudden thought she had already dropped so far into the trap that she could no longer see the sun. A wild dizzying fear left her head swimming as her hand reclaimed his fingers.

His grip on hers tightened. “Very well.”

His hand yanked her sideways, their fingers clenched. A thin cut stretched along his wrist. Warm blood leaked over her skin. Other wrapped behind her head, then he pulled her to him. Supportive as pain ripped up her forearm. A wild gasp, almost a moan, escaped her.

_ Creators, _ the thought swept through her.  _ What have I done? _

His lips were against her ear, murmuring softly in elvhen.

“My blood shall be your blood,

My bones, your bones.

My spirit shall strengthen your spirit,

All that was mine, now yours.”

Intermingling blood wrapped about their hands, tying them together. His deep, rolling voice lingered in her ears. Magic, her magic, the endless raging storm in her core slammed against all barriers she’d erected to keep it back.

“In you, do I devote myself.

In you, do I find release.

Yours the only name upon my lips,

Your will I carry into the night unending.”

Eirwen gasped. Magic leaked through her wrist, blood coiling around him. His energy returned, pulsing through her. It gripped her, firmly but questioning. Intertwining strands of power flowed at the edges, encircling them both.

“Hear me, Evasha,

sustain your servant in your might.

Claim me now,

and I shall be with you,

for all my days and for all my nights.

To the Beyond, when we shed again our earthly flesh.”

Eirwen felt Dirthamen shudder, body rolling against her. His hand slipped off her back, and she realized he was panting. His lips pressed to her ear.

“Never shall you walk

this waking dream alone.”

Her arms closed around him, catching him as the intonation ended.

He landed on her heavily, knees giving way as he slumped toward the floor. The blood hovered around him, coiling, almost snake like. Pressed to his skin. The power pounded through her, wildly, almost uncontrolled. Vibrating beneath her skin, a thousand tiny bugs crawling behind her eyes. A listless hand rested on her knee. Surrounded in the darkness of his hair, she felt the magic thrum through her blood. Tied around her. Threaded tendrils extending between them in a latticed weave work, not yet knotted together. The spell hovered inside her, waiting.

_ For me,  _ her eyes squeezed shut.  _ No turning back now. _

“Yes,” Eirwen whispered hoarsely, “I accept you.”

In that moment, the spell thrust through her.

And in the next, they were one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... that happened.
> 
> You guys are probably going to get a few chapters pretty quickly since I've once again caught up to the point I'd written ahead to. I tend to do that, skip ahead and write scenes then catch up.
> 
> If heads start spinning because of dizzying reveals, then I apologize.
> 
> Where Solas moves slowly, Dirthamen as a character tends to act very rapidly. I'm still figuring out why. I'll throw the bonus smut I wrote for the conclusion to this in a separate chapter so you can skip it if you like.
> 
> Now, I have to up the rating.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed.


	21. (Smut Insert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a smut chapter, nothing but. If you've skipped ahead then spoilers abound. It's Dirthamen and Eirwen. If you don't want to read smut then skip it to the next chapter.

White hot power blasted into the endless expanse of stars. Arms tightened around Dirthamen’s shoulders. Fingernails dug into his shoulders as she cried out. Hands lifted a head, a mouth found a mouth. Hot skin. Burning skin. Skin electrified. Tongue plunged deep into a moist, weaving blackness. Teeth brushed teeth.

An aching back slammed to the floor.

Pleasure bridled pain.

Careful hands stoked the flames hotter.

Hips slid between parted legs.  _ Not close enough.  _ Thighs cinched tight.

“Touch me.” Words whispered against lips, brushed against a breathless voice. “Sathan, I…” A claiming kiss held tight, crushing answering moans. “Closer, I need…”

_ This? You? _

Fingers grappled buckles. 

“Fenhedis!”

Inside her, his presence moved. In her mind, under her skin, moving with her hands. Overpowering, driving need. Omnipresent loneliness. The vast empty swath of comforting dark. Fire where he touched her. Hands alive as she grasped his neck. Her own magic on his skin, burning her palms. Crackled. Heat raced through her abdomen, down between her legs.

Impatient hands tossed away a belt.

“No, no, no.” Hands gripped his pants, fingers rising to push under silk. Stroking a warm stomach, the sweeping red lines of blood. “Don’t.”

Back between her legs. His nose brushed over hers, the important question on his lips, mouth over hers. “Venavis?”

_ Stop? _

She yanked him down. “Don’t.”

Their mouths joined. Her hips lifted, rolled demandingly against his pants. She felt him, hard and straining.  _ Yes. _ Her heart pounded in her ears.  _ Yes.  _ He wanted her.

“Yes, Renan.” His distant voice filled her. “More... than... I... realized.”

A thrust entered her. Gasp filled her. Pleasure burst behind her eyes, sent her spiraling. Swimmingly high. Her body jerked, thighs tightened. Cock still inside his pants. Yet, he was in her. In all the ways that mattered. “Ah!” Too soon. Too fast. “I...” she panted, “I want.”  _ So much.  _ Her head back against the floor, staring up into golden eyes. “Dirtha--”

“Sulevin,” he murmured in her ear, voice straining. Cool his tone, but another vibration lay beneath it. Slightly out of control. The truth yanked free. Moist tongue slowly rolling along the curve, her skin on fire. Her jacket fallen open, a hand trailing over her ribcage. “My name.”

“Sulevin,” she agreed. “Sulevin.”

His teeth closed on her ear, twisted.

Another spike bucked her hips. Another thrust of magic crashing through her.

She moaned.

“I want you, Eirwen,” his soft voice rolled inside her, lips pressed to her ear. “Have wanted.” Breath rushing over her cheek. “From the very first moment you entered my consciousness.” Mouth rolling over her mouth, slowly, almost delicately. “I must remember,” his lips passed close, too close, “commend Mother on her brilliant trap.”

“Is that what this is?” Her tongue traced his lower lip, hands dropping back to the hem of his shirt. She traced around the outer edge, fingertips teasing his skin around to his lower back. “A trap?”

A beautiful smile warmed her. “I am wholly ensnared.” 

A blush heated her cheeks as she yanked his shirt free.

He shed it easily, leaning back on his heels. The almost frenzied arousal still in his eyes, filled her with the same heat. The same desperate need. She forced her gaze to drop to his slim chest, ignoring the cut of well defined muscles, the broad back, the long arms, to the twining red lines marking his body. She swallowed, long, thin, they branched outward and coiled in a pattern both familiar yet entirely unknown.  _ Vallaslin.  _ He was wearing vallaslin on his chest and neck, vallaslin marked each knuckle. Vallaslin blazing with her magic.

“Creators,” she breathed. Her stomach tight.  _ Horrified.  _ Unhooking her legs, she sat up. Hands stretched out, fingertips finding the lines. Her heart hammered. Sparks jumped into her skin, left her flushed.  _ Aroused. _

“Eirwen.” 

His voice commanded she look at him.

She did.

He wore no vallaslin on his face.

_ Am I disappointed? _ She wondered.  _ Or relieved? _

“Why?” the word scraped against her throat.

“Service is chosen.” Gentle knuckles stroked the side of her face. “Devotion, a gift freely given.”

“Why?” she repeated.

There was humor in his laugh. “You requested it.”

Her hands dropped to tug at his pants.  _ It should be repulsive _ . Yet, oddly comforting instead. Lips twitched. Her eyes lifted. Playfully, her index finger yanked open the hem. “May I have you?”

His mouth quirked. “Have I not made myself clear, Renan?”

“No.” Her fingertip traced down, finding his hard cock straining against the cloth. Fingers rolled over the curve. She watched him shudder, felt the returning thrum of pleasure. “May I?”

His brows lifted, then she saw his slowly widening smile. “If you wish it, I am yours.”

Eirwen leaned forward, thumb and forefinger running from tip to base. “Then, stand up.”

He complied, slowly. Steady movement careful to retain their physical contact.

She rolled onto her knees, lips pressed to his stomach first. Tongue trailing down the line of vallaslin, it heated with her touch. Crackled. She heard a moan escape him, his hand brushed her hair. The same pleasurable sensation spiked her center. 

His cock rolled against her fingers.

_ Touch me, _ his body cried.

She sucked his skin into her mouth slowly, blaze of power snapping through her. Heady. Her hand stroked down his length again, rose again. Faster, faster, around the impression in his pants. Hard, she felt him. Her ghostly fingers undid his pants. Let them slip to the floor.

Then, he was in her hand. Red lines tracing round the length of his cock, glowing brightly with her touch. She pulled back the foreskin around the sensitive head and her mouth closed around it. Sucking him in, her tongue licked the moist, slick, soft surface. Fingers traced up the curling vallaslin then down to the base, up and back.

His hands found her ears. Thumbs stroked the tips in slow circles. 

_ I want you,  _ her body moaned.

His breath came quicker.

_ Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. _

Her mouth vibrated, vallaslin sparked, tongue tracing round and round.

_ Sulevin. Dirthamen. Creators. Gods. _

His hands clenched, fingers twisting to a sudden, shrieking pleasure.

_ Oh, oh, oh, oh... _

She panted, mouth open, pulling him in deeper. Winding electric heat, nerves exploding.  

_ Want me, want me. _

He slid free from her mouth, still hard. Still stiff.

She glanced up. “Have I…”

He was on his knees, arm swept down her back, hand hooking under her buttocks. “Nae.” The word, breathless. He caught her head with the other. Mouth on hers. He pulled her legs out from under her. They fell together. Hit the ground, hard.

His shadow stretched over her, between her legs, his hand teasing her thigh.

She gasped against his mouth.

_ Please, keep touching me. _

His tongue stroked hers, pulsing quick and fast.

Her legs opened.

Thumb found her clit.

She felt him behind it, tip of his cock teasing her entrance. 

“I prefer this,” he murmured.

Teeth taking her lower lip into his mouth, he leaned his hips forward. Her lower body buckled, heat flushed her. Her hips lifted, circling slowly as he turned round her clit. His slick head brushed deeper.

“Oh...” The gasp echoed back. “Yes.”

_ Want me? _

Letting her lip go, he answered her his own rotations.

_ Yes.  _ Quicker.  _ I want you.  _ Harder.  _ Want you.  _ Thrust. “Oh!”

Her legs tightened around him, rolling against him, encouraging him deeper.  _ Deeper.  _ His hands gripped her thighs.  _ Harder. _ He rocked faster.  _ Faster. _ Each thrust came quicker, harder, her walls squeezing around him. Her nails buried in his shoulder. Eyelids fluttering tightly.  _ Yes! _ He crashed into her. She pulled him deeper. Gasping moans slipped through her lips.  _ Oh, oh, oh, oh. _ Each thrust gave way to another, pounding harder and harder until her warmth exploded.  _ OH! _

Her walls clenched. He came as suddenly.

His voice echoed in her ears.  _ Elvhen. _ Not any variant her dizzy mind understood. Other than, “Lathin’asha.”  _ Lovely woman. _ “Dirthera ma nuvenin.”  _ Tell me your wish. _

Her eyes opened.

A hand turned her head, callused fingertips traced her cheek, and she met warm golden eyes. “Dirthera ma, Renan.”  
Why was his voice so gentle?

“Tel’ghilas,” she whispered. “Tel’nuvenin ne’ven shiraldin ma’u.” 

_ Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone. _

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Eirwen returned it with a wry smile of her own.  _ He probably won’t answer that. _ Whatever this had been, it wasn’t… that kind of commitment. Whatever he’d vowed.  _ Vows I barely understand. _ He could probably weasel out of them and the vallaslin. It meant nothing, except as a tribute to a commitment he’d undoubtedly break.

Dirthamen rolled onto his side, arm wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her against him. “Ma nuvenin, mir’lin.”

Her head rested on his shoulder. _As you wish, my blood._ He’d used a possessive, rather than the more accepted _lethallan_. _An endearment?_ Eirwen cuddled close as he wrapped a fur over them both. Too soon for that. She barely knew him. Her lashes fluttered, exhausted. _Too tired to ask._ Darkness raced to embrace her, and she found herself all too ready to accept. Dirthamen’s shoulder was surprisingly comfortable, as she threw a leg over his thigh. _There’ll be time enough._

A hand gently stroked her hair, warm murmurs that lulled her closer to sleep.

She snuggled a little closer.

“Evasha, lasa ghilani vir’na’vhenan. Ma nuvenin nehn, tel’numin.”

_ Solas will never forgive me. _

With warm comforting arms wrapped around her and feeling truly safe for the first time in nearly two years, Eirwen wasn’t entirely certain that mattered any longer. However long this lasted, and she definitively knew it wouldn’t, there was something nice in being wanted. Comforted. When she’d been a child, her position in the Clan had been defined by her magic. In the Inquisition, her importance and friendships were a gift born from the Anchor.  _ Without it, without surviving it, Solas would never have glanced at me twice. _

Darkness swam before her eyes, even as her throat thickened and she bit back a sob. Had anyone ever really wanted her? Just Eirwen, the girl with dreams too big for herself. The girl who wanted to race into the great wide world, to poke through the lost ruins, climb the highest mountains, race across Antivan rooftops, to stride into Minrathous’ Obsidian Sanctum and spit in Archon Radonis’ eye.

More than anything else though, she’d always longed for a place in the world where she could chase the wondrous theories, philosophies, and ideas in her mind without fear of being stifled due to religion or hunted out of fear. Where spells and inventions meant to aid those with less in their daily lives were not thrown away for fear of how it might affect the status quo. A place where she could drink a glass of water without passing it through taste testers to ensure it wasn’t poisoned. 

_ There’s no place in this world for someone like me. _

When the only person she thought might understand was too busy distancing himself from events, from the people who needed him, and repudiated them as kinship.  _ Practically called me a dirty knife-ear. _

After the last few day’s events, after destroying the slave market in Norba, when all she’d truly managed was to again show the world why magic and elves were meant to be feared, it was nice to be wanted.  _ Maybe it is too easy. _ Maybe she was just signing on for Round Two with the Second Fen’Harel. Even so...

_ It’s nice. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a long time ago. I like it. So I'm gonna share it. 
> 
> I hope you like it.
> 
> Ahahahahahahahaha...
> 
> We'll get back to seriousness in the next stage and things should slow their roll again soon.


	22. Chapter 22

After picking the Girl up off the floor and carefully wrapping her beneath sheets, Dirathamen sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward over his knees, hands shaking. Legs trembled. His head ached. Sharp pain intermingled with intense stabs of pleasure where the brands had seared into his skin. Even now, as he steadily calmed his breathing and stilled a rapidly palpitating heart, it took all his self-control not to roll over. Let his mouth cover hers, sink into the furs, and restart what they’d begun only a few short hours past.

His fingers clenched, nails biting into his palm.

He could not.

Turning his hands over, he studied the red twining lines of vallaslin now marking his skin. They traced the outside of finger lengths, coiled about his knuckles, disappeared up his forearms, and up his chest.

Her magic chose the color red rather than blue.

It surprised him.

Proof again her current appearance, her motifs, and visual themes were parcel to another long con. Her soul a place of fire, not ice. Fire meant light and change, light to blaze forth a path into a new world.

A frown deepened his brow, and his eyes returned to the Girl.

This change required thought, consideration, and a certain amount of time he did not possess.

His hand lingered on the bed’s edge. It felt wrong, not touching her.

Trembling, bone-weary fingers itched at the sheets, inching back toward where her sleepy hand stretched out on the bed. The romantic part of him fancied she might be reacting to the same feeling which had overcome him, subconsciously fulfilling the same desire.

Reaching for him as she slept.

 _No._ Dirthamen sighed, glancing over his shoulder to study the round, innocent face framed in hair the color of cascading starlight. He’d left such nonsense behind him long ago.

“What am I to do with you, Renan?”

The Girl rolled a little, shifting position, as her head cradled against the silver pillow. Small frown marring her brow, lips tightening at the corners.

A faint, wry smile touched his mouth.

Her hand inched across the gray furs, over black silken sheets.

Dirthamen moved his just a little, just enough, so her right index finger came into contact with his left pinky. It found the red vallaslin which now marked his hands. She stilled then, rolling just a little further forward. Then, her nose smushed into the pillow, face smoothing back into contented dreams. His smile widened. Warmth balled in his stomach, filling it with an odd tingling, a fondness vastly different from the earlier flames of passion. Mixed with pity, and no small amount of irritation.

“Truly, you’ve no wish to be alone,” he murmured. “It seems we share that, at least.” Exchanging hands, he leaned back, and lifted the furs so they better covered her shoulders. “Do not fret, lovely one.” He tucked them in around her. “I’ve no intention to break my promise.”

If only because he had much to repay. On their first night together, he’d given an incredibly poor showing. The act itself lasting barely more than a single hour. _I might as well have been a bumbling, lunk headed wool-gatherer barely passed my two hundreth year._ He could only thank his luck for a willing partner. She’d been receptive, eager. Though how much of it was the spell’s work and her own loneliness, he could barely guess. _As to myself,_ he swallowed a sigh, _I did not expect such a reaction._ When he’d come to offer his services, his aid, he had not expected this.

Her.

 _I want you!_ The gasping heated murmurs of a frenzied coupling. _Touch me! Please! Touch me! Don’t ever stop!_ Even as steady fingers undid his pants. Mischievous blue eyes, white hair tumbling around bare shoulders.

_Mother’s Mercy._

He swallowed.

He did not confuse sexual gratification for love.

Physical pleasure did not link itself to emotional connection. Such was the position of the young, the ignorant, and the foolish. Those who fell into their desires regardless of the reality before them. The ones who wanted love immediately and with no effort.

He remembered the countless times over the millennia when Sylaise found a particularly excellent lover, claimed them as her one true love to be discarded within a week when they bored her.

Dirthamen had no such compunction.

Only fools believed love mattered in the grand scheme. Emotional attachment created weaknesses where they need not occur, dangerous to the object of affection. The smaller and more vulnerable the creature in question, the more likely they were to used or destroyed both in spirit and mind. Once discovered, objects of affection were convenient playthings. Especially those without the power or knowledge to defend themselves.

The Girl had the power, perhaps even the will, but lacked the necessary knowledge. Talent only extended so far.

Oh, but her talent…

The vallaslin on his skin vibrated with the memory, he came alive now at her touch. Longing to feel that rush of pleasure again.

_Dangerous._

It encouraged him to move in foolish directions, act hastily when patience was required. Sylaise once constructed her brands to provide a similar kind of motivation in her followers, she even more skilled than he in sending the mass into wild orgies with a finger flick.

Dirthamen had not intended his reaction to this vallaslin to be so intense, yet he had also been unable to control the form it took.

The brands reflected the magic’s soul, it’s personality. The Girl’s.

_Eirwen’s. Her personality._

In a few generations, he would know her far better than any other.

And she would know him.

With a sigh, Dirthamen tucked a few strands of silver hair behind a slim ear and smoothed it back.

“We are as good as married now, lovely one,” he said. “Though none need know it, except myself.”

She snuggled a little closer into the pillow.

Lips quirking, he leaned over her.

Only he had spoken the vows, therefore only he was bound by them. It had been his choice, should she choose to answer them in the future then the binding would be complete. He could accept it if she did not. She was not accountable for his behavior or at the mercy of a vow she neither knew nor understood. Vows ultimately were meaningless words. What mattered was the conviction beneath them, the intent within the promise. Binding himself to her made him _hers_ , but it meant nothing else. She was not his. Not unless she chose to be.

A sigh escaped him, and he leaned back.

Whether lovers bands or those of mentorship, he’d taken on the responsibility of protecting her. That, in large part, extended into helping her learn to defend herself from himself as well as the others.

_A skill Fen’Harel ought to have passed on to her before we met._

Dirthamen rubbed his forehead.

Fen’Harel.

 _Shem’Harel will never accept this intrusion into his territory,_ Dirthamen thought.

Though worth considering, it was a lesser consideration. Fen’Harel was not the kind to murder what had once been his in order to keep another from possessing them. He would murder Dirthamen first.

Murdered in a fit of pique? That proved more likely.

Fen’Harel had his reservations in regards to the suffering of those he deemed innocent. For all his flailing, he avoided casualties he believed to be unnecessary. Preferred death remain at a minimum, and rescued all he felt deserved his aid. An honorable elf, so far as their kind went. A trait often used against him. It would prove for naught, however. In the end, Fen’Harel could only be counted to act in the name of that which he deemed right.

In the aftermath, he would leave all others to burn.

 _I will find myself the more convenient target. I am already hated._ He chuckled, tucking another stray few strands of Eirwen Lavellan’s silver hair behind one ear. _To be the target of Fen’Harel’s wrath is hardly a new state of existence._

How the Girl felt come morning about this was the more pressing concern.

Fen’Harel knew well enough how to make his own bed and how to lie in it. The betrayer could hardly call anger upon the betrayed when they inevitably returned the favor.

Whether the Girl perceived what she had done as a betrayal was the true question, how she felt in regards to it, and the form their relationship might take in wake of that.

Necessary to prepare himself for the inevitable eventuality of remorse, and the regret which followed after. Easily explained away as an accident, magic combined with desire leading to a foregone conclusion with neither of them to blame.

She would have her excuse.

He wondered if she would take it.

Eirwen Lavellan curled up tighter, legs tucking up toward her stomach. Her hands tucked beneath her head. She was a child when she slept. All wear and tear washed away, and he saw into the past. To the sorrowful lines tucked in the corners of her mouth, the slight squeeze in the black lashes, the silver head slightly tilted so as to listen for sudden sounds or movement.

She did not sleep easily.

His eyes narrowed.

These were not habits learned over the course of a few years, but a lifetime.

When coupled with the deep distrustfulness he saw when looking into her eyes and the confusion whenever she received praise, he doubted she had ever truly been a child.

_Hard lives often craft hard people._

For such people, trust was earned. And this woman was no wild dog, to bite, snap, and growl when fed. No starving beast desperate for scraps or kindness. This was an intelligent, rational, logical woman who handed back compassion when offered cruelty. Who meted out decisions based on use and necessity. From what he’d witnessed in her mind, her path was redemptive. She turned enemies into allies. Forgave so long as they were willing to work, but did not forget.

One who had never been taught that in order to care for others, she must first care for herself. One whose trust had been abused by those who took it for granted. Those did not know the value in so a precious a commodity, and never realized how ephemeral it had been.

Pragmatic ruthlessness coupled with a compassionate heart.

A leader.

Whether she chose to stay upon her mountain or return to shred those systems which abused her and her people, he would stay.

Regretfully, he removed his hand from her hair.

_Yet, to achieve all I hope for, I cannot be her only teacher._

If she were to trust him, then he dared not cage her with only his words and his views. She would need to see the Elvhen, understand them in all their horror and their glory. She must be given access, allowed to form her own opinions. Learn from the one who despised him above all others and who knew his value before all else. One who would give her the contrasting view she required.

With her curiosity, her trust could not be won without the option to choose for herself and the opportunity to decide her path. Understand within her core that he did not swear himself to her cause in order to create a slave, but rather to find a future worth believing in.

If he placed his trust in her, then she would do the same.

Should she decide he must answer in blood for his crimes against their people, then he too must answer.

For now, she needed him.

Dirthamen smiled and sat back.

He could trust her pragmatism in that.

Slowly, Dirthamen stood and crossed the room the table. They’d again left the food forgotten, and he seated himself. Settled his hands on the wood before he picked up a spoon.

A flick of his left finger released a spell. It called to a hidden place on the far side of the world, a temple buried for eons and as yet undisturbed. Where his most loyal and loathed pair of followers resided.

Harel and Harel were precisely what he needed.

Dirthamen could trust they wouldn’t stab him in the spine just yet.

Well, not entirely.

_What is life without a little risk?_

 

***

 

Morrigan hurried from her bedroom in Skyhold, aware of a cold wind sweeping down from the North. It chilled her deep in her bones, but her mouth curved slightly in a smile. She sensed success at hand. The Lady’s magic had a ripple effect, one which left behind passing echoes as it spread outward across the face of Thedas. When one attuned to it, they could find it leaking out from between slivers in reality left behind by her portals.

The Tevinter city of Norba had been destroyed.

The “Inquisitor” should be informed.

_I’m sure the Commander’s outrage at apostate mages will once again be in full swing._

He mattered little. With an Evanuris freed to walk the world, the days of the Templars were numbered.

Morrigan’s jaw set. Her outrage settled only by the Lady’s audacity, and her cleverness. While the Inquisition and the Chantry scrambled to raise the necessary resources in Tevinter, Eirwen Lavellan strode straight to the source. A choice no doubt dangerous for the status quo. Dangerous in general. The sort of risk none in their right mind would readily agree to.

A smile curled her lips.

_That is why she did not ask._

Morrigan could not deny the Lady fulfilled her end of the bargain. She had Dirthamen’s research into the Well of Sorrows and the Lady Dirthamen himself.

 _What wonders one might learn from such a mind,_ Morrigan thought as she crossed the Great Hall. Long strides took her past foolish courtiers and merchants bickering over trade agreements.

“A whole granary lost mold set in by an early crop!”

“My daughter says she saw blue elves walking on the cliffs. I told her it was nonsense, but can you imagine? Blue?”

“All I want is for Empress Celene to answer Baron Orso’s proclamation of separation. Will the Inquisition do nothing to hold the Empire together?”

“Saw giant black harts racing across the hills in the Hinterlands. Headed south.”

“Received a raven this morning. The Bann of the Red Creek’s son vanished in Denerim. Begging the Inquisitor’s aid, apparently. Suspects witchcraft.”

Lip curling in a sneer, Morrigan cut into the furthest left passage behind the throne and began her climb up the rickety steps toward the Inquisitor’s quarters. If Command was holding neither council nor court, then she would be in her room.

_Someone must instruct the poor girl on the previous Inquisitor’s behavior. Hiding from the world will only work for a few weeks more, eventually they shall demand action._

Quickly, Morrigan suspected, with the Lady destabilizing Tevinter in the North.

The Well’s voices murmured at the back of her mind, asking questions she had no answers to.

 _I do not speak for these people!_ she thought back, irritated.

As she learned from the Well, the voices seemed to spend just as much time making inane nonsensical statements. They blamed her for the holes in her memory, her ignorance and the general lack of knowledge which would allow her to put many of what they deemed the most basic spells into practice.

_My choice ought to have been for my own benefit._

Yet, it trapped her in the role of an adviser.

_An adviser with no one to advise._

No one except the fake Inquisitor.

The Inquisition only worked as a means of balance and it would not last forever, eventually sides had to be chosen. The old or the new.

War was the one truth the Well’s voices understood.

It required funds, soldiers, and proper supply lines.

Primitives like her would never truly comprehend true strategy, the secrets meaningless without context and followers capable of carrying out her orders. The voices may have disliked the Lady, but they chastised Morrigan just as strongly for allowing the elven woman to slip through her fingers. Not only had Eirwen Lavellan learned the secret to effective immortality and released their most hated enemy, but in the aftermath of news coming from Norba they also suspected she had the makings of an army.

What the Lady wanted with it when she already had one, Morrigan did not know.

The voices had theories, but no answers.

The stairs creaked under her weight. Any weight, she suspected. The scaffolding never properly repaired. _Allowing the Inquisitor to fall to her death anytime she likes._

The room above was quiet.

Though Morrigan had no idea if silence was unusual. Ask her about the Warden and she could name all personal habits and physical attributes down to his boot size. When he wore boots, anyway. For the first three years of his life, Kieran insisted on running about barefoot like his father. A small smile curved her lips. The only time the Dalish elf deigned to wear shoes was in the Deep Roads, and only because the rocks were unusually sharp.

Like the Inquisitor, he required shoes specially cobbled. Kieran did too.

The act of roaming the world barefoot reshaped their feet, spread the plain of the foot and splayed the toes wider. Allowing them a better grip on the ground. Hardened their soles rougher than the toughest leather.

She wondered if the new Inquisitor shared those attributes.

If it truly was Eirwen Lavellan or if it had become something else, something which only wore her face.

Morrigan climbed, quickly. A few more steps and she was at the door. Slick hands brushed the front of her skirts. Sweaty palms, a sign of nerves. The sort she never dared show in public, rarely in private. She lifted her chin, set her jaw.

_I’m prepared._

Raising her hand, Morrigan knocked.

“Enter!”

When she stepped inside, she found she wasn’t prepared at all.

 

***

 

Dirthamen watched as Harel and Harel stepped out of the shadows in the Girl’s cabin. They walked in unison, all movement done with languid, if precise, timing.  They moved together, fought together, worked as mirrors, and each shared the other’s thoughts. Fear and Deceit were not two beings as the legends so often mistook them, but one. A pair of souls merged into one entity and ripped apart again, split between two separate forms.

As he and Falon’din had been when they were born.

_Harel and Harel, the only true slaves still in my service._

Spooning the last of the broth into his mouth, Dirthamen set aside his spoon. He leaned back in his chair, knuckles resting on lacquered wood. He drummed his fingers against it, lips pursed in thought.

They approached him with their matching faces, matching black hair, and black pupiless eyes. They’d cut their hair short, jagged as if done with razors. Their bodies slim to the point of skinny. They were both tall, taller than himself. Bodies built from boney angles, similarly harsh in their faces. High cheekbones, wide flat planes of foreheads, a sharp chin, and eyebrows thick like caterpillars. They dressed in nondescript leather jerkins and armor, dual daggers strapped to their hips, and wrapped bows on their backs.

They carried no arrows.

His lips twitched.

He did not expect them to.

Once the Dawn Princes of the Uthunuanan, war leaders to a race of elves who knew the secret, darkest mysteries of the Fade, Harel and Harel had been taken and broken many millennia past. Bound by the red vallaslin marking their skin, forced to obey his will and his commands. The flow of their lives were tied to him. Their unending energy, drawn from the deep Fade, fed his long life as so many of their race had his mother and father. They served like loyal dogs, hunting down his foes, ferreting out conspiracies within the thoughts of his subjects, and guarding his treasures.

_Broken is an inaccurate way to put it._

In their service to him, they bided their time. Conspiring to take his life as he once stole theirs. Desires for survival and vengeance were powerful motivators. In the right minds, they drove excellent service. Achieving their goals required they remain close.

_Let it forever be said, no slave is toothless._

“Dirthamen,” they said as they came to a stop stiffly before his table. “We greet you, great one.”

Lifting his mug, he offered them a salute. “I see time has not aged you, nor have you managed to slip the leash.”

The skin around the left Harel’s eyes tightened, lips pressed together in a bitter line.

The Harel on the right smiled an easy smile. “And you appear well rested, my lord.” His head cocked sideways, thatch of black bangs flopping across his brow. Black eyes swung pointedly toward the bed, where the Girl lay sleeping. “Perhaps too much so, as sleep eludes you.”

“In uthenera does provide quite the waking pains,” Dirthamen agreed, sipping his ale. His eyes went from one to the other. “I may remain awake for another hundred years in order to shake it off.”

Their mouths curled in a grimace.

Dirthamen chuckled.

Together, they were less a threat to the Girl than Fen’Harel. Ability did not always lead to intent. He doubted either would harm her. Of all the qualities they inherited, love of talent was first and foremost. Love for the innocents of this world, the second. Hatred for meaningless slaughter, the third.

He felt no shame admitting they were the better elvhen, though they would frown angrily if he named them as the conqueror’s people when they were the conquered.

Harel and Harel might never admit it aloud, but the Uthunuanan spirit still beat. Their people long gone, fled to the outer reaches of the Beyond and into the Endless Tapestry where they sought out newer stranger worlds or dead as the Elvhen absorbed them into their empire. Their traditions lost. Their knowledge bled. Their immortality sacrificed.

Harel and Harel remembered, however.

None alive knew the Fade as they did.

Not Falon’din.

Not Fen’Harel, whatever his pretensions.

Not even Mythal.

No, this time, their willing aid would be necessary.

And he was not the one to elicit it from them.

“Sit,” Dirthamen said. With a sweep of his hand, he gestured to the two free chairs on the other side of the table. “We’ve much to discuss.”

“You want us to sit?” The right Harel asked, surprise dropping him into what Dirthamen suspected was a more modern variant of their tongue.

 _So, you did not stay locked inside your cave for a few thousand years as ordered._ He smiled. _Well done._ “I’d not have said otherwise.”

They glanced at each other. Then, as one, they took their seats.

Dirthamen did not mind their suspicion. He expected it. They had every reason to fear him when he acted in any manner seemingly accommodating, but he had the greater experience when it came to winning accords with those who knew better than to trust him.

“You’re wearing the vallaslin again,” they said, their eyes dropping uniformly to the lines on exposed hands.

“It is real, this time,” he replied.

Harel on the left shrugged, shoulders lifting into a bird shrug. “So were the last seven, when you wore the vallaslin and then rid yourself of it.”

Dirthamen smiled.

They frowned.

Leaning back in his chair, Dirthamen steepled his fingers. “Did you bring the orb?”

Again, the pair glanced at each other. The constraints of the vallaslin and its compulsions wrapped about them, subtly sliding beneath their thoughts. The resistance was plain in their eyes, in the slowed movement of hands dragging toward the table’s edge, but they had no choice but to give it to him. Orders were orders, even when phrased as requests.

The right side Harel deposited the small stone ball on the table.

Left Harel’s eyes rose to study him, intently. Expected him to reach for it.

Dirthamen’s smile widened.

In the end, they were the only ones capable of touching the orb without consequences. The bindings which allowed them to hold it in service, also forbade them from wielding it.

All Evanuris were barred, all souls, except the one it was meant for. This included himself. He doubted they knew.

Only the one could. The one who passed its test.

What a terrible conundrum, he thought as he watched the stone settle on the wood.

All the power and knowledge one would ever need for their vengeance, the soul of the Elvhen people in their hands, and be forever barred from using it. All terrible, soul-devouring for others. No more than a lump of rock when held between their fingers, useless.

“Excellent,” he said. “I am about to bestow upon you the greatest gift you’ve ever received, Harel.”

They both stiffened, hands clenching into fists on the table.

He leaned forward, gaze falling on the foci. “Freedom.”

From the way they shared another nervous glance, he could tell neither believed him.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know, you’re speechless.”

The Harel on the right leapt to his feet, chair toppling to floor.

Dirthamen caught it with magic, spell cast by a flick of his wrist. A sound dampening field fell around them. _No sense in waking Renan just yet._

Better to let Harel and Harel get used to the plan he had for them first.

“Have you gone stark raving mad?” the Right Harel blurted.

“Don’t question him!” The Left Harel snapped, all manipulative deference. He’d remained in his seat, hope burning in his black eyes. He leaned forward. “You’re going to free us?”

“I won’t,” he said calmly.

A pair of disappointed sighs escaped them.

His head jerked toward the bed. “She will.”

The Harels stared at him.

“The Inquisitor?” Harel on the right whispered.

Left peered at Dirthamen. Interest in his eyes as his gaze fell back to the foci between them on the table. “You’re going to raise the Inquisitor to Evanuris.”

“If she accepts the challenge inherent in picking up the gauntlet,” Dirthamen replied.

The Right Harel glanced at the Left. “He has gone mad!”

“No,” Left whispered. “No. I believe he's sane. He doesn’t intend to fight Fen’Harel. Do you, Dirthamen? The Dread Wolf is only a small bump on the road to your goal.”

Dirthamen smiled.

Right Harel stared at him incredulously. “You’re going to end the Blight!”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And I will require many alliances to do so." He studied them, glancing from one face to the other with bright golden eyes. "They begin with you, the last representatives of the Uthunuan People.”

They stared at him, stunned in silence.

Then, the Harel on the left laughed. "You see?" His shoulders shook. "I told you he'd surprise us one day."

The Harel on the right wrinkled his long nose. "Unpredictable as always, but capable of sense."

"We will listen to what you have to say," they said.

"Excellent," Dirthamen replied. He lay his hand on the table. "Shall we begin?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I wanted to get this one out before I just collapsed into silence again.
> 
> First, Harel and Harel from "On the Wings of Ravens" are back. They're probably my favorite characters. Yes, that's the foci they were guarding.
> 
> Dirthamen is going to be a very interesting character, I can feel it. He's fun, he does the unexpected, and he's a leader. He's also done some awful things but you know, that's where those shades of gray come from. He's moderating back in his old age.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!


	23. Chapter 23

Eirwen woke caressed by warm sunlight; to the sound of soft voices. Right hand fingers traced over bumps in the sheets. Moving slowly as she wondered at the way her muscles relaxed. Like sleeping on a cloud, she floated, buoyant. The weight which usually lay heavy on her shoulders, her struggle to remain connected to the physical world, had vanished.  For the first time in nearly a year, she was pain free.

Memory of hot, calloused hands on her skin, lips running along her ear. Soft moans escaping her throat as she reveled in an intense intimate connection, the kind she’d never felt before.

Her head lifted off the silken pillow and she blew a few white strands out of her eyes.

_Creators,_ Eirwen thought, breathlessly. _I slept with a Creator._

Kiss Solas. Sleep with Dirthamen.

It all happened less than twenty-four hours apart.

Her gut knotted as her knees tucked up to her chest. Guilt nestled in the pit of her stomach, weighing down the butterflies trying to escape.

_What is happening to me?_

She bit her lip. An elven god bound himself to her with vallaslin. _I never got around to seeing if the future slaves we rescued arrived safely._ An elven god had asked for sanctuary and bound himself to her with vallaslin. _That wasn’t an exhausted fever dream._ No, from her position on the bed, she heard his low voice. Dirthamen was sitting at the table discussing something with a pair of male elves. Here, in the middle of a cabin he repaired. Probably eating food that he himself cooked. _And he bound himself to me with vallaslin!_

The universe... had gone utterly topsy turvey.

_I’m mad. I’ve lost it. I should just go back to bed._

What had happened to her?

Solas…

_Solas is the last person I want to be thinking of._

If he wanted to have a problem with where this was going then he shouldn’t have left her in the first place. He would anyway, she knew. He was so irritatingly contrary. He understood regret wasn’t enough, but he kept coming around. He insisted they couldn’t be together, that he had to destroy everything she loved. Told her she was ignorant, offered up no solutions, and kept kissing her.

_Then, I kiss Dirthamen._

And cast herself into the Void.

Eirwen flopped back against the pillow, swallowing her urge to scream. She just wanted to pull the covers over her head and disappear back into the comforting lull of sleep. Wake up somewhere else, somewhere sanity had already reasserted itself.

_Somewhere I didn’t throw myself at an elven god who may or may not have enslaved my people._ No getting past the fact they had sex. No getting past her ability to feel him, his emotions and thoughts tucked up in a warm ball at the back of her mind. Bright and vibrant in the face of her overloaded senses.

Dirthamen knew she was awake.

He was amused.

Eirwen rolled onto her back. It didn’t feel like an intrusion, it felt… odd. Not wrong, just different. They were close now, very close.

Irritatingly so, she decided.

Shaking her head, Eirwen squeezed her eyes shut. Whatever she felt, she didn’t know him. Whatever he was, she certainly didn’t believe him a god. Maybe they could help each other. Maybe he had been straight with her. Maybe he did want sanctuary.

_And, perhaps, the halla will develop wings and fly._

Solas painted the Evanuris with the same brush, they were all evil except for Mythal. Memory of his discussions of them at the Well of Sorrows with Morrigan had haunted her more after he revealed his true nature, but they’d haunted her at the time too. He’d spoke with such certainty, but it came tethered with generalities. All doom and terror, with nothing concrete to cement his version of the stories into fact.

Eirwen wanted to believe him, even believe in him.

_He just gives me so little to work with._

When he did, every single position he offered was one she was against in principle if not in detail.

She wished he’d show the same confidence in her, understood why he didn’t, and hated the fact they were trapped in a stagnant position. Neither could move off the impass as they worked toward their respective goals. Unless someone admitted they were wrong, they’d never get anywhere.

_Well, it won’t be me!_

Sighing, she pursed her lips against the pillow.

Dirthamen seemed to take a different position. Time would tell if he was sincere.

_Do I keep kissing him until I’ve figured it out?_

The thought of pressing her lips against his didn’t feel particularly wrong.

Her mouth twitched.

If anything, she wanted to.

Trust him too.

Well, there was a thought which put her warning bells on high alert, jangling about in her head. Immediate, implicit trust put up her hackles. Trusting anyone was unnatural, trusting one she’d met less than two days before? Impossible without interference.

Whether it was due to magic, mental manipulation, charisma, or hormones, she supposed it didn’t matter. Trusting him was a dangerous proposition, her head said. Trust led to abandonment and betrayal.

Inevitable. Unavoidable. Impossible.

Love offered nothing except disappointment.

But grabbing him and kissing him?

Not so bad, really.

If Solas had a problem with her kissing a member of the Evanuris, especially one she might be able to come to some sort of diplomatic compromise with, then he shouldn’t have left.

It had been a rather lengthy dry spell, after all.

Besides, Solas would hold an alliance with Dirthamen against her either way. What did sleeping with the Evanuris change? Nothing. Except greater indignation and disgust layered on top of the disgust already mingling with his other feelings for her.

If sleeping with someone he despised finally proved to him that she was, in fact, a grown up then all the better. Falling down the wrong hole was better than being pushed, especially if she chose to take the leap herself.

Biting her lip, she hugged her knees to her chest.

_I said I was going to save Solas, not save my relationship with him._

Refusing to come down off his mountain and communicate was his problem.

The three elves in what now constituted as her parlor were hers.

_I doubt I can put this off._

Well, not unless she wanted to hide in bed all day.

Slowly, Eirwen sat up.

Across the room, three black heads turned to her.  She hated to say they were all handsome, but they were. _And suspiciously visually similar._ All with translucent white skin, pale to the point of sickly, with fine black hair and long noses. Dirthamen was distinguished by his golden eyes, while the eyes belonging to the pair of twins were a flat and bottomless shade of black.

The twins were thinner than Dirthamen, she decided. Narrower and more angular in both face and body, with hollowed cheeks and slimmer waists. Bony, like they hadn’t had a good meal for a hundred years.

_Maybe they haven’t._

The twins both wore the winged owl shape of Dirthamen’s vallaslin.

Such a distinctive visual, she remembered. Her gut knotted. Even with visual similarity, they held themselves with straight backs and near perfect posture. Like Abelas.

They weren’t Dalish.

From his place at the table, Dirthamen’s mouth pulled sideways and he set his spoon down in an empty wooden bowl.

The dark ball in the back of her mind pulsed warmly, a sensation which felt like… _amusement._

Eirwen glanced down at the black sheets over her legs and her bare breasts. She frowned, then her eyes rose again. She tilted her head, raising an eyebrow.

His black brows rose in response, lips curled into a smirk. Another emotion flashed through her mind.

_Approval._

This time, blood flushed her cheeks. She blushed.

“Did you sleep well, Eirwen Lavellan?” the question came from one of the twins.

“Yes,” Eirwen said quickly.

Licking her lips, she slid to the edge of the bed. Her dress no longer lay in a crumple on the floor beside the chairs, but another sat folded on a small black table next to the bed. She didn’t remember the table. Or the blue dress.

_They’re new._

The twin on the left smiled. “We checked with the seamstress at Skyhold for your measurements before we came.”

“And found several of that size in the great one’s collection.”

In unison, their eyes returned to Dirthamen.

“Myria,” Eirwen murmured. The dwarven woman from Orlais always had a pin to stick in nasty places, but she was a wizard with her fabrics. She glanced at them. “You were at Skyhold?”

“Many of our brothers joined the Inquisition’s flock when the war began,” the one on the right replied. “They wished to watch, if not aid. We joined to keep an eye on them.”

“We have been observing the situation,” the one on the left said.

Reaching out, she grasped the soft fabric. Running her thumb over it, feeling the slight bumps. It felt soft, softer than soft, and thin. _Like water flowing between my fingers._ “You were there when we fought Corypheus?”

“We observed the situation,” the one on the right repeated with a smirk.

Slowly, Eirwen nodded. “Leliana’s ravens are shapechangers.”

“Some,” the one on the left said.

“Not all,” the one on the right added. “She wouldn’t like it if she knew.”

“So, we didn’t tell her.”

_Neat trick,_ she thought. They spoke in tandem, like they were finishing each other’s sentences. Dirthamen, meanwhile, was being very quiet. “Why didn’t Cole notice you?”

“He’s young,” the one on the left said.

“A novice,” the one on the right replied.

“And Solas?”

The one on the left smiled a smile to match the other. “He wasn’t looking.”

Eirwen paused. She supposed though, that made sense. Iron Bull often said it was easier to find a spy if one knew what to look for. _He just put his nose in the air about passing those skills down._ Solas believed that all his people were gone except those he’d made contact with, however he made contact with them, so maybe he’d miss the ones hanging out in the bell towers. They hadn’t noticed Fen’Harel’s agents in the Inquisition because they didn’t know Fen’Harel existed.

If the same was true for Solas, if he didn’t know Dirthamen had counter plans within plans or his agents still had a vested interest in gathering intel, then it was possible there was more going on here than she’d previously imagined.

“I think I understand,” Eirwen said. Reaching out, she grabbed the dress off the dresser. If they were taking the time to talk to her, she’d assume that it wasn’t laced with poison. “How do I put this on?”

“Over your head,” Dirthamen said.

“Like a shift,” one of the twins added.

Nodding, Eirwen found the hole at the bottom and lifted it over her head. The fabric slid or rather slithered down her arms, settling across her shoulders. The dress tightened across her bust, moving with a life of its own as it found the curves of her breasts. It twisted around her waist as she jumped to her feet, loosening into a skirt which ending at her knees.

“The fabric will conform itself to your body,” Dirthamen said. “You may experience a few moments of discomfort.”

“It’s a magical dress,” she said, running her fingers over her stomach and down her legs. Stating the obvious, she felt more than a little dumb. “I mean,” she swallowed, “it’s enchanted.”

“You will find there to be little in Arlathan that was not,” Dirthamen replied.

“Why have your clothes tailored when one could design clothes which tailor themselves?” one of the twins asked.

“To not put the tailors out of their jobs,” Eirwen said.

Both of them laughed.

“If the tailors are not tailoring, they may focus on more artistic pursuits,” the twin on the left said. “They may design.”

“The dress remembers your preferences,” the other added. “Reshapes itself as tastes change.”

“It saves time.”

“I see,” Eirwen replied, glancing at the twins. “And who are you?”

“We are Harel,” one said.

“And Harel,” the other said.

They both smiled.

Eirwen swallowed. Harel was a word in the elven language with a multitude of meanings that changed based on its contextual application. It was a verb. _To cause fear or to deceive._ If they were also ravens then… then their names were a pun. Twinned for dual meaning, possibly so one never knew which was which. Eirwen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Dirthamen’s ravens, the ones from our legends.” _The ones Dirthamen tricked into serving him so he could find Falon’din in the Fade._ “Fear and Deceit.”

The Harel on the left grinned a very sly grin. “Guilty.”

“Quite,” agreed the one on the right.

She frowned, her right hand itching at her shoulder. She remembered she hadn’t summoned up the projection of her left arm. _Not sure if I’d have felt better just facing them naked._ “Ir abelas, falon, I’m afraid my next question may insult you.”

The Harels raised their eyebrows.

“What’s the joke?” Eirwen swallowed again, mouth still dry. “Your names, I mean.” Shaking her head, she smacked her shoulder. “Fenhedis!” _Vivienne and Josephine spent a few weeks ensuring I was, at least, marginally trained in a public speaking and diplomacy. I can do better than this._ “It’s supposed to be funny, isn’t it?”

They stared at her. Then, in unison, their eyes turned to Dirthamen. “Beware, great one, this girl has begun to grasp your sense of humor.”

The ball in the back of her mind knotted with unspoken irritation.

_Slaves,_ Eirwen thought. _They’re his slaves._

The joke was one made at their expense and Dirthamen was the root cause.

“I suggest you put your inquisitive mind to good use and suss it out for yourself,” Dirthamen said. His lips tugged into a slanted smile.

_Struck a nerve,_ Eirwen thought. A very definite attempt at moving the conversation forward. Interesting though, that this made him uncomfortable. She’d expected more sly humor, more amused smiles, and uncaring, laconic posture. Instead, he’d wound himself tight as a spring. Tensed, perhaps, for inevitable outrage.

“I think,” she paused, “it’s a pun. In elvish, harel stands for both fear and deceit. Fen is wolf and Harel is dread. However, despite the literal meaning, The Dread Wolf means liar, deceiver, trickster, and something to be fearful of. They’re interchangeable.” Her eyes jumped from one long pale face to the other. “The name scheme indicates you are mirror images of each other. Yet are also separate, distinct entities.”

The Harel furthest down the table lifted his hands and began a slow clap. “Well done, Inquisitor.”

“I’m not the Inquisitor anymore,” she said.

He smiled a slanted, clever smile. “Does the Inquisition know?” His hands rose and fingers interlaced behind his head. “Once a herald, always a herald.”

She frowned.

“Our name is also an insult,” added the Harel closest to her.

“Is it?” she smiled, knees feeling a little weak.

“Yes,” Dirthamen said. “Born of a time when we were all younger, and crueler.”

“You especially, dread one,” the Harel on the Right said.

Dirthamen leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I cannot refute it.”

Eirwen pressed her lips together. Sitting there, he looked strangely burdened, tensed, and put upon. As if he were preparing for a heavy conversation, one he expected to go badly. It reminded her a little of Solas, except without the general wariness and confusion. Whatever was going to be said, Dirthamen expected her to understand it.

He just didn’t believe she’d like it.

_Can I blame him?_ She hated slavery, hated the Magisters, and she’d slept with one who’d held others in bondage longer than any other living soul except maybe another of Evanuris. _What were the elves at the Vir’abelasan then? Were they slaves too?_ Solas said slaves and expected her to get it, but she didn’t know enough about what it meant. Yet he spoke highly of Mythal. How could he speak so highly of her, if she was also the architect of a system he hated?

The Harel on the Left leaned forward and winked at her. “The moment Dirthamen removes all congeniality is the moment we know he cares.”

“He has already offered us our freedom in exchange for our aid,” the other Harel added. “Those who work with him usually do so of their own volition.”

“At their own peril,” the Harel on the Left laughed.

“Oh,” she muttered.

Dirthamen exhaled heavily, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

A much more obvious gesture of irritation, Eirwen decided. Suddenly, the image came and she imagined him in a study, surrounded by books and scrolls and those strange crystals he’d left on the walls. A simple, black study, like the furniture he’d given her. Robust, functional, but unadorned. Sitting in a high backed chair, beside a fire, his feet resting on his desk. Brow furrowed as he flipped through reports.

She wondered if he was like this when his walls dropped.

“We’ve much to discuss,” Dirthamen said, his brisk tone a far cry from the warm, charming, congenial elf she’d met the night before. Instead, she found him short, concise, direct, and uncomfortable. She supposed it was his business face. “And we’ve little time to cover it all.”

Eirwen smiled. She liked it.

“Very well,” she said. “Where do we begin?”

 

***

 

Morrigan always believed she was well prepared for any eventuality. Yet, it was always the one she never expected which caught her by the throat. The sight which greeted her when she stepped inside the Inquisitor’s quarters in Skyhold sent waves of shock and horror rippling up her spine. Breath caught in her throat, it took all of her composure to keep from bursting into laughter.

The bedroom was strewn with unwrapped packages, opened boxes, brightly colored paper, fabric, and lace. Items set out across the tables, the desk. Parchment and papers tossed hastily about the room. Red wax dotted the visible patches of stone.

The Inquisitor’s substitute, Command stood not on the floor but the large, four poster, cream colored bed in the room’s center. Her bare toes dug into the fine silk sheets as she launched herself toward the ceiling. She hopped, up and down, up and down. Her short red hair bouncing about her face, hiding her eyes. A strange brown substance coated her lips, smeared across her cheek toward her left ear.

Chocolate, Morrigan decided. Several opened boxes on the bed bore the names of famous Orlesian confectionaries. Sugary candies lasted quite some time and Bon Bons had proved more popular this year within Celene’s court. The Inquisitor was not known for her love of cookies or cakes, but that never stopped the nobles from sending them in droves.

_With the entire collection inevitably finding their way into the addled hands of orphans and refugees_ , Morrigan thought. Inquisitor Lavellan never returned a gift received, she simply gave them away. Boxes of fine treats often turning up as classroom prizes in her schools or handed out by the cooks to Haven’s farmers after a hard day’s work.

If she ate them, she did so rarely.

Command’s head swung in her direction, though the bouncing did not cease. “Morrigan!” she exclaimed with a heart stopping beautific grin, entirely unguarded. The sort the real Eirwen Lavellan would never have smiled. A warm, genuine smile so utterly innocent that Morrigan felt her cold heart fracture on contact, all amid the warning bells.

She didn’t wait for any further invitation before stepping inside. Her head inclined deferentially. “Inquisitor.”

“I intended…” Command trailed off, the bouncing slowed. “I intended to send these out, but then I was hit by an odd idea.”

“Truly?” Morrigan asked.

Command nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I’m not sure where it came from this strange sensation. I did not know I could feel it, I never had an interest before.” A small hand rose and clenched against her breast. Clouded blue eyes narrowed. “Curiosity.”

Morrigan’s brows lifted. “You were curious?”

“I wondered,” Command’s eyes swept the demolished packages strewn across the floor, “what is inside them? What would happen if I opened them? It seemed a shame to let them go, not knowing.”

Morrigan glanced away. “You are the Inquisitor,” she said carefully. “If you wished to open up your gifts, none could stop you.”

“Well,” Command sighed. “They aren’t mine, are they? Eirwen wouldn’t open them. Easier to resist temptation, she says, if one never looks.”

“Yet you wondered what was there?”

“I wondered why it mattered,” Command countered. “If I eat the bon bons, am I agreeing to a marriage pact? Have I accepted the proposal?” She shook her head and hopped off the bed. “I don’t know.”

“I never believed it did,” Morrigan said. “I do not believe the former Inquisitor did either.”

“I am Eirwen,” Command said. “I possess her memories, know the names. These faces and dates and emotions, but I…” she trailed off. “What am I to do with them?”

“Nothing if you do not wish to,” Morrigan replied.

It was a swift response, nearly a knee jerk. The immediate advice she once offered Celene and Mahariel when he bothered to listen.

Command paused, lips twisting as a visible bulge emerged in her cheek. A sign her tongue pressed thoughtfully against the flesh wall. “Michel de Chevin sent flowers,” she muttered. “Daffodils with his letter informing the Inquisitor of the Dales status.” Her lips pursed. “I forwarded them to the appropriate channels as I am supposed to.” Head tilted, she tapped her toes against the stone. “I don’t think I like yellow.”

Morrigan didn’t intend to care. Command’s childlike nature might remind her of Kieran, but that did not mean she was a child. The trouble was, she found herself worrying. Whatever Eirwen Lavellan had planned, this could not have been it.

_Unless I choose to step in, this one may be sunk at the imitation._

Inquisitor Lavellan was well known for her rigid self-control. She could not be bought, though knowledge of this never stopped fools across Thedas from attempting nor her from capitalizing on their foolhardy mistakes. It was one of the reasons Morrigan found her… comforting. Though, she’d no desire to admit it. A fool deserved to be taken for all he or she had, and the Inquisitor often did.

Celene’s nobles especially feared her because she refused to be bound by their conventions, the rules they held as absolute and unshakeable.

Without them, they’d no authority.

“Command,” she began.

“Everyone who knew the Inquisitor is gone,” Command replied swiftly, sounding much more like Inquisitor Lavellan. “You’ve nothing to fear, Morrigan.” She looked up. “You could leave too, if you like.”

Morrigan paused, chest hollow. _Such sadness in those eyes._ Beneath the dismissive tone, she saw the loneliness and the expectation. What parts of Eirwen Lavellan had leaked into this spirit? Were they her emotions or Command’s? The desperate loneliness swirling beneath the surface, hidden away by that self-sufficient attitude.

Command expected to be left as her usefulness was used up. Abandoned to deal with the remnants of the Inquisition on her own, alone. Perhaps, because Eirwen Lavellan had been before and then perpetrated the same crime upon another unsuspecting victim.

She would not be, Morrigan decided.

“I am still the Inquisition’s magical advisor, am I not?” Morrigan asked. “And the work of the Inquisition itself is yet unfinished.”

“No,” Command shook her head. “I care for none of that, Morrigan. The ideals this organization were founded on have no meaning to me.” Her eyes rose, back of her hand wiping away the chocolate smudge. “Eirwen Lavellan’s dream has not been achieved.” The corner of her mouth tugged sideways. “I intend to make it a reality.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan swallowed.

She lifted a finger. “Instead, how would you like to turn the fear upon those who inflict it?”

“And why would I wish such a thing?” Morrigan asked. “I have stood in the Empress’ court and taken up a very cozy position as her special advisor. Like the previous Inquisitor, I am bound by neither the limits nor boundaries of the average mage.”

Command glanced at the floor, then her eyes swung to the loose sleeve flowing around her left arm. “I wonder.”

Morrigan’s lip curled. “You are arrogant like your predecessor.”

“It is good for you if I am,” Command replied. “Then I cannot be swayed by those who wish to curry favor.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “I have a role I must fulfill, and you...” her blue gaze lifted, “you will forever be a second class citizen, living on the edge, at the sufferance of a greater power.” Her gaze fixed on Morrigan. “In this world, Morrigan, you’ll never be accepted as you are.”

Morrigan frowned, this girl-spirit was correct. She’d intended to mentor this creature, but perhaps that was unnecessary. _This is what the Inquisitor planned? If so, she is far more dangerous than I previously guessed._  “What do you suggest?”

“This is an _Inquisition_ , isn’t it?” Command smiled. “Inquisitor Eirwen Lavellan believed it was high time this organization properly took up its cause.”

Morrigan swallowed, her mouth dry. Her fingers turned, smile inching across her face. She could not contain the excitement beginning to build within her, nor did she wish to. The pure, undiluted darkness of this ambition was more exhilarating than terrifying. Command stood here offering her a voice in the world that was to come. A chance turn the blade on all those sheep who scorned her as she walked the halls of the Empress’ court, protected by nothing except fear. Survival of the fittest ruled and those who deemed themselves hunters would surely be brought down amidst the chaos.

Yet to turn the Chantry’s own worst aspects against itself. The dogmatic adherence to their rules, their Exalted Marches, the destruction of any and all so-called heretical thinking that served only as a structural support to allow those fools at the top to hold onto their power… yes, she understood. They would do nothing the Chantry had not already done before, they would simply turn the blade on those who thought themselves protected by it.

An Inquisition upon the rich rather than the poor, using the same tactics the Chantry wielded successfully generation after generation upon their flaccid, rotting corpse.

“I see,” Morrigan murmured.

And she did, truly.

“We will erode the Chantry’s support among the nobility from the inside out.” Command stepped forward. “They who inflict this system on others will see it turned upon themselves.”

_Now, she sounds much more like the Inquisitor. When focused the transformation is complete. However, while in private, she seems so much more vulnerable. Fascinating._

“A terrifying business, to be sure.” Morrigan’s brows lifted. “And how shall we destroy them, pray tell?”

“We are a peacekeeping force now,” Command said. “We’ve no desire to rule nations, Morrigan.” She raised her left arm. “After all, who better to hunt out demons and heretics now that the Templars are gone than the Herald of Andraste?”

Command’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you understand?”

Morrigan swallowed.

She saw the battles reflected in those eyes, the castles burned, and the noblemen dragged out before their squalling infants as they were cast upon the pyre. Be it Tevinter with Andraste or the Exalted Marches themselves, history was now bound to repeat.

_How unexpected,_ she thought. _I see I can no longer afford to overlook Eirwen Lavellan._

The whispers buzzed in the back of her mind, calling her a fool as usual. They demanded she once again locate the genuine article and not sacrifice all for a copy.

The elven female assuredly possessed power, but she’d not expected so devious and destructive a mind as to destroy her own powerbase. Yet, she had indeed walked away. Left a copy in her place, to carry out a plan of her devising. A plan her copy believed in and, perhaps more importantly, was bound in faith with her.

Command was not only now Eirwen Lavellan.

Command would die to see those dreams of the one she served achieved.

_A general commanding their army for the queen._

Morrigan swallowed.

_The Inquisitor’s strength lay in her ability to bring disparate groups together. She adds spirits to those groups with elves, dwarves, mages, and the impoverished humans soon to follow._

Morrigan would not ask what throwing over the Chantry had to do with the inevitable plan of stopping Solas. Rather, she saw the conquest reflected in those blue eyes. Perhaps, Eirwen Lavellan had never truly been content with maintaining the status quo. Perhaps she, like Andraste before her, saw the opportunity to overthrow it.

A herald of a new age.

Ready to grasp Thedas by the throat as Corypheus and Fen’Harel had done before her.

Smile curving her lips, Morrigan watched the candlelight glimmer in Command’s eyes.

When Corypheus threatened the world, the nobility of Fereldan and Orlais for the most part had done nothing. Too embroiled in their own petty squabbles to see the world ending about them, their people displaced. The Inquisitor alone had gathered allies and stood against the tide. Like the Warden before her.

“Morrigan.”

The word shook through her, the lingering strength of a spirit’s command.

“I believe so,” Morrigan said. “You intend to aid Eirwen Lavellan in the reshaping of this world and I believe I shall aid you in the process of destroying our enemies from within.”

Command knelt and picked up a small, finely crafted wooden box from among the collection of packages on the floor. She tossed it with a flick of her wrist.

It flew, spinning across the room.

Morrigan caught it.

“A gift to seal our pact.”

Opening the box, Morrigan found a simple gold ring finely filigreed with interwoven strings of silver. A small ruby lay in the ring’s center. The stone burned with an inner red fire, a potent magical energy. Slowly, she removed it from the box and held it up to the light.

“Impressive,” she murmured. “You received this from your noble suitors?”

“I’ve improved it,” Command replied. “You will now find many of the unusable spells buried in your memory are now within reach.”

_You are a foolish one, demon._

The whispers grew more insistent. She knew what they said, but this was not beyond her abilities. If she had survived Flemeth, she could stand against this one. After all, there was far more to be gained than might be lost and what existed to be gained was more than worth the risk.

“Very well,” Morrigan nodded as she slipped the ring onto her finger. “It is agreed.”

Command smiled.

A sign they were about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the next chapter. I'm chipping away at it, slowly. Between getting sick and everything else going on in my life, it makes writing a little more difficult. I ended up writing a very long conversation, so you'll probably get a bunch of chapters fast again, then it'll slow down.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one!


	24. Chapter 24

“If you agree to this then our meeting today will be the first of many war councils,” Dirthamen said. “One we must build, in time, as we locate allies.”

Eirwen crossed her single arm over her chest. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that she was missing the other. Gone, unless she concentrated. She stood away from him, at the edge of the table, while the other two watched. Yet, even this far, it didn’t seem to matter.

Dirthamen was beside her in a sense, inside her.

Magical energy flowed between them, crackling and sparking. It fed off her, flowed into him and left her grounded. Solid in the world around her. Whether he sat on the other side of the room or not, it didn’t seem to matter. There was only really the two of them in this small cabin and it felt a bit like it’d always been that way.

Time would tell, though, if his war truly was hers. 

Eirwen tilted her head, lifting an eyebrow. “Will we find them?”

Dirthamen chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “The powerful and the resourceful always do.” The corner of his mouth yanked sideways, into a warm grin. “The question is rather: will these allies be worth having?”

Across from him, both Harels smiled.

So, Dirthamen amused them.

The two Harels sat together on their side of the table. One on the left, the other on the right, both infuriatingly exact in appearance. She wondered if they really were twins or the result of some magical event which served to turn them into mirrors. No pair she’d seen ever seemed a perfect reflection, but these two… they were visibly indistinguishable.

“We work with what we have,” Eirwen said, fingers itching at her bare shoulder. She still felt naked, unhappily so. Behind too. She didn’t come prepared or with the requisite two hundred years necessary to sort out the particulars. She continued to have trouble with the more subtle aspects of Orlesian society, the meaning behind a slight smile or a finger twitch. They were always associated with something, the question was what. “It’s all we can do.”

“Well said.” Tapping his finger absently on the table, Dirthamen glanced past her to the wall. “I know very little about this world, I confess I’m unsure on how useful these mortal nations will prove to be.”

“The people are workable,” Eirwen replied. “The nations less so. We don’t have the necessary hundred years for a quiet, bloodless revolution through implemented policy. Sometimes, it feels as if the only language the noble houses understand is one of force.”

“That’s often the case,” the Harel on the Left said.

“Focused entirely on short term political gains,” she added. “Rather than long term goals. Whether it’s Orlais and their tiresome Great Game or ‘We’re Staunchly Independent But Guard Our Borders’ Fereldan, it never seems to matter. They accept aid when they’re in danger. When it’s gone, their tune changes. Helpful allies become a foreign invasion, even when they themselves have done little to restore order. Their care for their people is secondary to maintaining their hold on power.” Old grievances and frustrations rose easily to the surface. “The Inquisition helped them, fed them, returned their lands to them with no help regaining them, and they refused to allow us to continue aiding their people unless they got the credit.”

Eirwen’s lips compressed, it all spilled out. All her conflicting desires tumbling from her mouth. Her need for vengeance, for justice, for conquest. Hate bubbled and boiled on her lips, spat out. For most of her people, their disgust with the shemlen often became about only the shemlen. Rich or poor, it failed to matter. They saw a singular group, all similarly culpable with no shades of gray. Nothing in between. It was merely about an easy, though often deserved, excuse for hate. Hatred for their destroyed culture, their loss, everything about who they had been and what future they might have possessed.

If one could not walk into a town or city without fear, then one quickly learned hate as a reasonable response for the disregard they received.

She didn’t loathe humans, she loathed nobles, powerful merchants, and Chantry mothers. Only those who treated those less than them as lesser. Who didn’t see their power as a responsibility, a gift given so they might be better able to administer, to feed, and care for those in their service. Who believed they were owed their gifts by right, rather than privilege. Who felt they could renege on the contractual agreements and obligations of their rank.

Her nails dug into her shoulder.

“It was never about what was right, always about maintaining their grip on power, power they gained only through birthright and bought in blood.” Eirwen shook her head. “A man who cannot hold his lands deserves to lose them. Yet Josephine, Leiliana, Cassandra, and Cullen all insisted we restore order or make safe, beneficial choices in supporting the current regimes. Rather than try to build something better, our choices revolved around equally corrupt and inept rulers.”

_ We must work with what we have, Inquisitor. _

Leliana’s words.

Wise in the right frame of mind. Yet when it came to the noble houses of Orlais and Fereldan, those words always felt like giving up.

_ We must restore order, reinstitute trade, and bring security to these ravaged lands. _

The logic only worked with the belief that more would be hurt if the regime changed, the little people caught in the crossfire. Yet, those people suffered regardless because their rulers refused to share their wealth. There would never be a perfect system, but that didn’t mean they should give up on creating one. One with protections for its citizenry, all its citizenry, must be better than another which gave the most powerful free reign. One where the only punishment was social isolation and trade sanctions.

“You saved us,” she spat. “Now, go away. Let us enjoy the spoils we did not earn nor bothered to fight for. We deserve what you spent your blood and lives of those who followed you to regain. It is ours.”

Her eyes rose and she found Dirthamen’s golden gaze.

He studied her with a thoughtful expression. One hand had lifted, toying with a few strands of inky, night-black hair. Wrapping them round his finger much like she’d seen idle noblewomen as his eyes slid across her. The corner of his mouth curled.

“And what is it you desire?”

Cheeks burning, she lifted her chin.

She’d lied about her desires so many times in the past, it was difficult to know how she truly felt. Yet, now, she lost nothing by being honest. There was always a reason to be dishonest before. With the First, it was to save herself on punishment. With Keeper Deshanna, it aided in her happiness and the security of the clan. In the Inquisition, lies were necessary for survival.

The truth…

None of them would ever have allowed it. 

“I want to return the treatment of this world in kind,” she said. “I want to slip a collar around the throat of every noble in Thedas, and bring them to heel. I want to force everyone who whispered dirty knife ear behind my back to bow on bended knee. I want to throw the corrupt idiots who dine in palaces while their tenants starve into the dirt so they too might beg. I want them to feel the misery, the powerlessness, and the despair that they forced my people to repeatedly endure. I want them to understand what it is like to feel invisible, small, terrified, and unheard.” Her heart thudded in her chest. “I want them to feel it, though I know they’ll never understand. I want to tear down their houses, tear apart their bloodlines, and remind them their fancy titles are worth only what the rest of us allow.”

Eirwen sucked in a deep breath.

“But mostly,” she whispered, “mostly I want to be done being nice. I am finished being reasonable, with taking the route where the people on the bottom are not hurt. The only way to be rid of these odious nobles is to rip them out by the roots and put new laws in place, ones that protect those with nothing.”

Her fingers covered her eyes, lashes sweeping her palm. The cold fury pent up in her heart had caught fire, she felt more than a little mad. Dizzyingly high, overly ambitious, speaking desires which would never be real. Could  _ never  _ be real.

There was no place in society for her people to have an equal voice. No place for elves, not even in the Inquisition. They spent their days running from the world or eking out a life as second class citizens.

Eirwen lifted her head, watching Dirthamen between her fingers. 

“I don’t want to do it the right way,” she said softly. “I want to do it my way, even if I must burn my way across this continent and bathe my hands in their blood.”

Both Harels smiled.

Everything she said seemed to amuse them.

Dirthamen tilted his head. The warm ball in the back of hers buzzed with approval.

She understood, he wanted someone with compatible dreams. Someone to reshape the world with. She wanted the same. “Yes, our governments are worthless for alliances,” she murmured. “Solas talked about the excesses of the Evanuris, but only in brief. What were they? A war council?”

“They,” Dirthamen sighed, “ we… we were a governing body, rulers of our own domains, each in charge of our own territories but unified by our laws. Orders carried out from the Golden City, from Arlathan.”

“Solas said it started with a war.”

“Solas is wrong,” Dirthamen said. “Our godhood began the moment we raised ourselves above the others. However, from his perspective, I suppose he is also correct. Elvhenan reinvented itself many times over countless millennia. In time, you will learn the history of it in its entirety.”

“That day is not today,” Eirwen said.

“No,” he agreed. “Today we focus on why I am here, why Harel is here, and why you are here. We must turn our eyes to the future and the more immediate past.”

“So,” she leaned forward. “Why did you let me wake you up?”

His brows rose. “You are seeking some reason other than your charming mind and intriguing spirit?”

She frowned. “Yes, Dirthamen.”

“You requested it, Renan.”

Eirwen groaned.

“I intend to rectify a gross oversight,” he said. “The lingering plague my people unleashed on this world must be destroyed.”

Her eyes narrowed. She supposed he could mean Solas. This time, though, it didn’t feel like he was speaking in metaphor. “The Blight.” 

“The source of ultimate power,” Dirthamen replied. “Or so Andruil and Falon’din believed.”  
“You believed it too,” one of the Harels said wryly, though Eirwen wasn’t sure which one.

“Yes,” he sighed. “I confess I did, for a time. A secret weapon to aid and empower us in our desperate war against the Titans, but nothing worth possessing ever arrives from the Void.”

A wave of sudden sadness swamped her, sweeping across her shoulders, and riding down into her soul. Horribly dark, terribly hollow, and left her lonely; empty. She recognized it, shared it, even when she couldn’t identify where such emptiness had come from.

Biting her cheek, she glanced away.

She remembered his hands running across her arms, up her thighs. His lips pressed to her neck, her ear, and her hair. The sensation of his skin against hers eased the loneliness. When he touched her, she felt her severed connection to the physical world around her reconnect.

_ I wanted this feeling from Solas. _

Her gaze returned to the table then found Dirthamen’s golden eyes. The warm ball in the back of her mind throbbed, painfully.

His head tilted.

Quickly, she dropped her eyes.

“You have a plan to beat the Blight,” she murmured. “I hope it’s better than the Grey Warden’s.”

“Substantially,” he said. “The people of this time cannot know, at heart, what the Blight is. Therefore any plan created by one who knows will be far better than the one who hopes to… what is the charming phrase? ‘Get lucky’?” He chuckled. “One flails at a darkness they do not understand, while the other witnessed it before it became warped and shrouded in the shadowed heart of the world.”

Eirwen smiled. “The soldier who understands the battlefield wins.”

“He has the better chance,” Dirthamen said. “One can defeat an enemy they neither know nor understand, do so through a meeting of dumb luck and fate. However, those odds are long with minimal chance for success. I know what I am fighting and I am wise enough to know I cannot succeed alone.” His smile softened. “I need you, Renan.”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Defeating the Blight requires global unification beneath the banner of a single leader, one charismatic enough to hold them under their sway. Whom their soldiers follow without question. For the sake of whom, they shall march into the Void itself without flinching. Believing in neither cause nor orders, but rather acting on nothing more than their faith.”

“So,” Eirwen said, “you’re not asking for much.”

Dirthamen smiled. “No.”

“Has anyone ever done this before?” she asked.

“Only Falon’din,” the Harels replied. “And he exists in a state far worse than death.”

“Though we won’t miss him,” the Left side Harel added.

The one on the right snorted. “Few will.”

“Ah.” Pursing her lips, she crossed a single arm across her chest. Her heart hammered her ribcage. “You think I’m capable of uniting the world under one banner. I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You’d have done so if not for being surrounded by small minds intent on restoring the status quo,” Dirthamen replied. “I’ve seen the visions inside your mind, Renan. You dream of a world quite different from the one which currently.”

Eirwen glanced at him, lips quirking. “I hate to admit it, but you’re right.” She tilted her head. “I do want to rule the world.”

Dirthamen chuckled. “A dream many chase but few fulfill.”

Her gaze moved around the table, to the different eyes studying her with the same curious scrutiny. “I suppose you’re going to offer me the tools, so we won’t need to wait months or years while Fen’Harel reaches his goal. We can disrupt his plans now. A fair deal, all in exchange for the low cost of providing you with the army necessary to rid the world of the Blight.”

“This is not an arrangement, Eirwen Lavellan,” Dirthamen said. “I am not offering you quid pro quo. This is an alliance.”

“Alliances are built on quid pro quo,” she replied, tugging at the thin filaments wrapping around her shoulders. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“This one is not conditional,” Dirthamen said. “I will…” he frowned, “scratch your back? I will scratch your back, regardless of whether or not you scratch mine.”

Her lips pressed to her knuckles and she swallowed quickly, hiding a giggle. Common was not Dirthamen’s native language and she supposed the dialect shifts had moved too far for them to struggle through with elven. Still, she understood the pain of elusive idioms in a second language. Her head tilted and she smiled. “I understand.”

His lips twitched.

“The Blight’s greatest servants slumber within the Black City,” Dirthamen said. “They dream there, their minds stretching in incoherent whispers luring those of power who seek them.”

Eirwen swallowed. Leliana had forced her to sit through all the Chantry sermons with Mother Giselle and several other scholars in her off hours. The story of the Tevinter Magisters and the First Blight still haunted her. “That sounds an awful lot about like how the Old Gods communicated with the Magisters.”

“Does it not?” Dirthamen asked. “There may be a reason.”

“The Old Gods were also elvhen,” she whispered.

“Yes,” said one of the Harels. “When Elvhenan failed, those cleverer of our brethren who were no longer limited by the gods’ will took the form of dragons and sought out those we considered ‘savages’ to create an army.”  
“It ultimately proved our undoing,” the other Harel said.

“Those who survive believe themselves to be acting of their own accord,” Harel continued. “However, those who seek strength always fall into the claws of a greater power.”

Eirwen stared at him. “Corypheus entering the Golden City was supposed to bring down the Veil.”

“Yes,” said Dirthamen. “Whether it was for the sake of the Evanuris, those new gods who sought to steal the seat of creation, or those mages who wished to reach godly status themselves, it is what their actions ultimately ensured.”

“So, the Elven Gods would be released.”

Harel nodded. “Yes.”

“The Magisters were infected with the Blight instead.”

“Yes,” Dirthamen said.

“And they…” Eirwen paused. “They brought it back.” She swallowed. “They didn’t actually escape, did they? They were released.” She glanced from one to the other. “So... they could spread the plague.”

Dirthamen nodded.

Her eyes widened. “The Blight infects the Titans.”

“The Blight is… it is within many of the Titans now,” Dirthamen replied. “Empowered slaves ready for war, greater than June’s greatest inventions. My father and my siblings would very much like to wake them.”

“Creators,” Eirwen whispered. “How long have they been actively planning their escape?”

“Since the day they were imprisoned,” Dirthamen replied, “but they could exit their current circumstances whenever they desire.”

She leaned forward. “Why don’t they?”

“Why waste your energy when another will waste it in your stead?” Dirthamen asked. “They are biding their time, waiting for a fool to act foolishly.”

“Solas thinks he can stop them.”

“Solas is wrong,” said the Harel on the right.

The Harel on the left smiled. “Solas is simply one more fool.”

Jaw dropping, Eirwen leaned forward. “You’re mad.  _ He’s _ their trump card?”

“Fen’Harel is well-intentioned,” Dirthamen said. “He believes there is still hope for our brothers and sisters, that they may yet understand their failing. Whatever his intentions toward the other Evanuris, he desires to restore Arlathan and Elvhenan to their former glory. He cannot reach the Golden City and Elgar’nan’s throne without releasing them. Moreover, while he understands what we did to Mythal, he was not present to witness the others’ descent into madness.”

Eirwen frowned.

“Plan for those enemies whose desires will inevitably ally with yours, Renan,” Dirthamen said. “Just as Fen’Harel relied upon you to defeat his enemy and recover of his orb, the Evanuris will rely upon him to undo his magic and set them free.” His finger tapped on the table. “If another does not reach them first.”

She started. Solas talked about the Evanuris like they were contained, existing in tormented isolation and suffering. Locked away in the Fade, they lived in a hell beyond imagining. Then, she had Dirthamen. Dirthamen acted like… they were still players.

“Our gods,” she shook her head, “elven legend says the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones are silent, locked away from where they might hear our prayers and aid us.” Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to wrong on this count too. “You’re saying, they do hear us? They’re... aware?”

“No,” Dirthamen murmured. “Your existence and the prayers of your people are too feeble to draw their attention or their interest. I suspect the old dragon gods of Tevinter were once our servants, reborn under new names. However, it is those Blighted who listen to them now.”

She nodded. Unsure if that information left her feeling a little better or a little worse.

He leaned sideways. Though he was nowhere near, she felt warm breath brush against her ear. “It is similar to what I heard you mumble in your sleep.”

Another hot flush flooding her cheeks, Eirwen glanced at him. “They’re talkers, then?” 

Dirthamen sat back with a chuckle. “They do not slumber quietly, this age has been theirs to conspire and to plan in their slumber. Slowly gaining power from those sacrificed in their name.”

“I suppose you do too,” Eirwen said.

“I am not tied to the Blight,” Dirthamen replied with a wave of his hand. “And the strength offered up by your people through their shadow vallaslin is like a single raindrop in an ocean. It is not worth mentioning.”

“He is being modest,” one of the Harel’s said. “He could collect from those in this world far stronger who are tied to him, and does not.”

“Dirthamen never cared much for raw strength,” the other added. “You’re looking at the weakest of the Evanuris.”

The first Harel nodded. “By far, he is weaker than we.”

“Couldn’t even challenge Corypheus,” the second laughed.

“The pair of you are giving me a headache,” Eirwen muttered.

“They underestimate me,” Dirthamen said. “Pride has long been a particular failing of theirs.”

Both Harels snorted.

“However, it is true. I am the weakest of my brethren.”

“And the most vital,” the first Harel said mildly. “The most useful of all.”

Lips pursed, Eirwen sighed. “Knowledge is power?”

“Value outweighs all else,” Dirthamen murmured. “That is why I know what Fen’Harel does not.”

“You think you know them better?”

He frowned.

_ A stupid question. _

“Fen’Harel is true to his name, he preferred to walk alone in the quiet places of the world. He found himself drawn to studying those spirits who had little interest in taking the flesh, and seeing this plane through the dreams of those who did.” 

Dirthamen sighed. “In a certain respect, your legends are true. He straddled the middle between the Evanuris and those you now call the Forgotten Ones.”

Eirwen lifted her head. Mythal never talked about Solas, never answered her questions except with vague riddles. She wanted answers, maybe not all the answers, but if he was going to explain even a little then she wanted to hear it. 

“Fen’Harel had no love for our civilization, preferring solitude to our company. He is on the edge of being one of us. However, whatever he thinks, an outsider cannot be a member of the inner circle. His lack of commitment ensures there is much he does not understand.”

Dirthamen’s eyes dropped to the table. “He did not watch the corruption eat away at their minds, did not see the way it twisted their essence. They are dead in every respect except one, Renan. Their corpses yet shamble, their minds still yearn for the power denied them. Their spirits stretch out for that which escaped them in life. Should they wake, they will take up their war against the living and plunge this world into a chaos such as you never dreamt. To stand against them, the world must unite or all shall fall to the Void.”

Eirwen walked into the chair, yanked it out, turned, and collapsed into it with an ungraceful thump. Her gaze fell to her right hand, clenched on her thigh. White knuckles stood out against the deep blue of her dress. “Creators.”

A warm hand settled on her shoulder.

She glanced up into Dirthamen’s warm golden eyes.

He smiled. “We will save this world, Renan.”

“We?” Eirwen whispered, her throat thick.

“All of us,” he responded. “You, me, Harel, Mythal, and even, eventually, Fen’Harel.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You think you can convince Solas he’s wrong?”

“We will,” Dirthamen said firmly. “Together.”

She glared at him. “You need to stop telling me what I want to hear.”

He smiled. “In this case, it is merely a happy alignment of desire and fact.”

One of the Harel’s leaned forward. “He didn’t say we’d all survive.”

“Well,” Eirwen grinned, “that’s practically a guarantee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Slides the new chapter quietly across the table.*
> 
> Yes, there is another one coming.
> 
> Everyone throw your hands up in the air for moar exposition!


	25. Chapter 25

Shoving herself to her feet, Eirwen stood and stalked back across the room. Her mind buzzed, thoughts whirring as plans began to form. _We probably won’t._ She bit her lip. “You’re asking me to conquer the world in order to save it?”

He nodded.

“So, we can kill the Elven Gods.”

“So the people might be prepared and safeguarded while we do so,” Dirthamen replied. “Fen’Harel sees your people, the humans, the dwarves, the Qunari, all the Banalvhen as unnecessary. He will may move to protect the idea of them, but not the people themselves.” Spreading his hands, he leaned back into his chair. “My siblings have no such scruples. They shall each take a corner of the world. Their first act will begin a war of conversion. Wave after wave shall willingly submit themselves to the Blight, to the horrors my brothers and sisters bring with them. It will be a slow war, one which ends only when this plane collapses into the Void.”

“It’s a question of evils then,” Eirwen said.

“It is a war of ideology,” Dirthamen replied. “The success of the Evanuris lies in faith. In their current state, they are equally charming and terrifying. Their war is not one of flesh, but for the very soul. The core tenets by which those who rule now maintain their authority: tradition, responsibility, duty, and obligation; these are not enough to withstand them.”

She leaned forward. “So, you’re looking for a leader with the strength and charisma to combat them?”

“I am seeking a leader who inspires unquestioning and unwavering faith in those who follow them,” Dirthamen said, his eyes narrowed. “More importantly, she found me.”

Eirwen’s mouth opened, then shut. She glanced away. Her right hand itched at the waxy stump where her left arm should be. Swallowing, she stared at the floor. “I don’t think anyone’s ever had this much faith in me.”

“The highest ranking members of the Chantry handed an unknown Dalish mage unilateral control over their fledgling organization,” said the right side Harel from his end of the table. “What else could it have been?”

Her mouth twitched. “Desperation, leading to a catastrophic error in judgement in the desire for divine intervention.”

“The ultimate, unfortunate end is incidental,” the left Harel said. “Do you believe they had no faith in you?”

“They put their faith in the Maker,” she countered. “I was a convenient vessel.”

“Yes,” Harel said blithely. “He’s well known for giving commands.”

“You were the one performing acts deemed miraculous,” the Harel on the right added.

Eirwen sighed. “Fine.”

“You are not an unknown, Renan,” Dirthamen said. “You are a proven quantity, and a necessary one if we are to succeed.”

Lips curling into a wry smile, Eirwen shook her head. _I feel rather nicely maneuvered._ Still, the ball at the back of her mind gave his words a ring of sincerity. _As if he couldn’t fool me if he wanted to._ “All right,” she said. “You’ve convinced me.”

The Harel at the end of the table laughed. “The skepticism runs deep.”

“As it should,” Eirwen replied, lifting her chin. “You’d know if you’d lived as my people have. I understand your worth and know I’ve few options, but you’ll still need to prove yourselves to me.”

Harel smiled, black eyes glittering as he leaned forward. “We like this one, Dirthamen.”  
“She has potential,” the other one said.

“And pride.”

Eirwen swallowed, but she didn’t look at Dirthamen.

Not simply because she didn’t want to.

If she did, she’d just see more approval in his golden eyes and the lack of opposition left uncertain pinpricks running along her spine. Convincing Leliana, Cullen, Cassandra, or Josephine to work on reforms was like pulling teeth, especially when those reforms did not directly benefit the current status quo. Leliana and Cullen’s focus remained on the Chantry, they’d willingly move so long as the Maker got the credit. Josephine, a natural peacemaker, was far less willing to disrupt their alliances by implementing policy to which nobles had no immediate benefit.

None of them desired to take a long hard look at the corruption developing in their backyard, insisting she focus her efforts on stopping Corypheus by any means necessary.

All they wanted was for the world to go back to how it was before.

 _I cannot be satisfied with that. Just as I cannot be satisfied with big dreams with no plans to implement them. I’ve no time for reformers who imagine how things might be but refuse to look at reality._ She needed both, more importantly she needed a plan. _Those I developed but were never implemented by the Inquisition because the time wasn’t right, those are a start._

“Then we’re moving forward,” she said briskly. “If we’re going to conquer this world, we leave it better than how we found it. We’re going to do more.” Her mouth pursed and she paced across the wood. “What is the point of all this? All you three know, saving this world, if we’re just going to leave it worse off? No.” She shook her head. “We don’t do this to protect the status quo or to resurrect the past. We don’t do it just to win. We’re going to safeguard a better world, beginning with an overthrow of the old one.”

“That is why you are our leader, Renan,” Dirthamen said. “When left to our own devices, Harel and I would attempt to re-create our divergent pasts, we need fresh eyes with knowledge of this world and its peoples.”

One of the Harels snorted, though Eirwen wasn’t sure which one.

“He’s sucking up to you, Eirwen Lavellan,” the Harel on the Right said.

“He likes you,” said the Harel on the Left. “He wants you to like him.”

“And, as we know, flattery’s appeal is universal,” they chorused together.

Eirwen blushed. “Serannas,” she said, lifting her chin, “but I already figured.”

“You’ve too low an opinion of yourself,” Dirthamen said. “Flattery’s magic works best when it is also true.” He drummed his knuckles on the table. “The greatest compliments strike home what you suspected in your heart, but refuse to admit.”

“They can also be lies,” Harel said. “He could be telling you what you want to hear. From a certain point of view, even the truth is subjective.”

“He isn’t though,” the left side Harel replied. “Dirthamen is known for straightforward honesty when he is complementary, even when coming at you sideways.”

“His ability to take a joke and stand as the butt of one,” the right side Harel added. “We mock him, but we do not underestimate him.”

“You needn’t fear, Eirwen Lavellan.”

They both smiled at her.

Eirwen swallowed, it wasn’t an ingratiating smile. No, it wasn’t. Their smiles were thin like a knife’s edge. Dark as their eyes, chilling. _Like staring straight into your own death._ Nervous butterflies fluttered in her stomach instead, and cold sweat beaded on her brow.

She suspected they could smile however they wanted, be congenial as they wanted. If they couldn’t blend, someone would have noticed.

_Showing me what they truly are._

“Dirthamen lacks a paper thin ego,” they said. “The stupidity of others is opportunity for himself.”

“Enough,” Dirthamen said. “You’re frightening her.”

The irritated, warning tone in his voice surprised Eirwen. She glanced at him, once again suppressing the desire to tug at her pants. A warm fuzzy ball itched in her stomach whenever he stood up for her. Strangely new, this sensation. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

“They’re not,” she lied. “I’m fine.”

Dirthamen frowned, but said nothing.

The Harel on the Left’s smile widened. “That is a very good effort.”

“For you, Eirwen Lavellan,” the Harel on the Right added. “There is no shame in admitting you find us unnerving.”

“We were designed that way,” the Harel on the Left said. His black eyes swung to stare pointedly at Dirthamen. “As a lesson to others.”

“The price paid for challenging the will of a god _,_ ” Harel on the Right said, his lips curved with an ironic twist. A sign he didn’t believe in Evanuris divinity any more than Solas did.

Again, Dirthamen said nothing.

 _Why not?_ Eirwen wondered. If it were Solas, he’d defend himself. Defend his choices, he wouldn’t suffer a barrage of insults in silence.

Inhaling deeply, she exhaled slowly.

If Dirthamen didn’t, then was it because he knew he was in the wrong? Or maybe he just wanted her to hear the other side of the story? _Maybe he’s letting me make my own judgements._

Internally, Eirwen shook her head.

She needed to regain control of the situation. Refused to go through this entire mess again as just a passenger, existing to be exposited at. Unable to affect anything. _And how exactly do I overcome millennia after millennia of bad blood?_ God or not, ancients or not, it was no different than listening to a debate at Skyhold. Debates eventually required judgements, a mediator to pass sentence when the parties could not come to an agreement. Judgements risked alienation.

_And I need them both._

“I’m not in a position to judge anyone here,” she said, finally. “I’ve neither the context nor the history.” She met Dirthamen’s golden gaze. “And I can’t be anyone’s source of absolution.”

“You need not fear, Renan,” he said. “I’ve no disillusionment over what I am, what I have done, and what I deserve.” He shrugged. “I could make excuses, but there’d be little point in doing so.” His eyes returned to the Harels. “I might offer apologies, but they would be disingenuous. After all, I am not particularly sorry.”

The Harel on the Right smiled. “He’s a charming monster, isn’t he?”

“We’re testing his resolve,” said the Harel on the Left. “A few barbs here and there to see how well they stick. Don’t worry, we may hate each other,”

“But we’ll work together,” said the Harel on the Right.

“For the greater good,” they chorused.

Eirwen sighed. “You’re going to give me lots of headaches.”

The Harels laughed.

“She’s familiar with them,” the Harel on the Left said to the one on the right.

Then as one, they glanced across the table. “You chose well, Dirthamen.”

“Fen’Harel found and Mythal selected,” he replied. “I merely capitalized.”

Slowly, Eirwen moved to the chair next to Dirthamen and took a seat. The head of the table would’ve been better, somewhere neutral. She didn’t really want neutral, though. Both her head and heart pounded, mind trying to keep up with the dizzying flow of information offered up between the sniping and the barbs. She wanted some tether to cling to, something familiar. Someone to ground her. The three of them had tossed her up into the air and now she was falling, heading head first toward the hard ground; on the verge of cracking into a few thousand pieces. Scattered across the sky to join the stars.

_It’s not their age, it’s their history._

A connection she could neither share nor penetrate.

_But I don’t need to, not in order to function._

“Talk to me,” she said.

“It was war,” Dirthamen said. “If you like, we will review the events with you.”

Eirwen frowned. “Solas told me about the war.”

Dirthamen stretched out his hand. Gently, he closed his fingers around hers.

She swallowed, but didn’t pull away.

“This is a different one,” he said. “Fen’Harel would not speak of it, I doubt he remembers much except in passing. He was too young to participate.”

“Besides, he never cared for any wars other than those handled by Mythal,” one of the Harels said with a laugh. “Always preferred his books to a blade.”

“He clung close to mother’s skirts,” the other Harel added. “Stayed in her towers and her territories, her da’fen.”

Eirwen frowned. _I’ve never heard anyone speak of Solas like this._ So… infantilized. She wasn’t sure if she was amused or offended. “Abelas spoke of Solas, of the Dread Wolf with respect.”

“We are not Abelas,” the Harels replied.

“Oh,” she murmured. Sitting around the table, it felt similar to being with Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen. People with a connected past, led connected lifestyles, telling jokes beyond her understanding. _I feel like such an outsider._

“They are older,” Dirthamen said gently, his fingers were warm around her hand. “A great deal more so than most Elvhen.”

“Older than you, great one.”

This time, she heard the underlying sarcasm sliding beneath the honorific.

Dirthamen glanced at her. “They are correct, Renan. My old bones are hardly the most ancient present.”

“Just a little bit more than me, then?” she asked.

His thin lips curled into a warm smile.

She smiled back, unable to help it.

“It was Elgar’nan who believed in expansion,” the Harel on the Left said.

The Harel on the Right chuckled. “Mythal in putting down the rebellions which followed.”

They laughed. “She did not mind claiming new territory, only hated the headaches they brought with them!”

“Fine.” Eirwen sighed as Dirthamen gave her fingers an oddly reassuring squeeze. “Which war did you fight in?”

“When the Elvhen of Elvhenan conquered the Dawn Lands,” Harel replied. “As they had so many other races before us. June had not yet discovered the true potential in lyrium. The elvhen required batteries to fuel their civilization’s magic and what better than another immortal source?”

“Oh,” Eirwen managed. _Solas always made it sound like he knew everything._ Like the whole of elven history was his to know. She’d never considered there might have been a time which came before he did. Now, she was learning more than she’d ever wanted to know.

The more she discovered about Elvhenan, the worse it got.

“It is no different, I suspect, than the reasons your nations go to war these days,” Dirthamen said. “Resources, expansion, and territory.”

“Not my nations,” Eirwen replied. “The Dalish don’t make war on the humans.” Her eyes narrowed. “Some Clans raid, but most don’t. We haven’t the numbers, or the expendable resources for a prolonged conflict. We can’t hold territory without risk to the Clan. Even if we could band all our divisive brothers and sisters together to retake our homeland, arm everyone down to the children, there’d be less than any single army Orlais could muster.”

His eyes widened, but only slightly. The surprise almost imperceptible.

“We’re lingering on the verge of cultural extinction,” she said. “There are countless elves who live in the cities, but few keep to the old ways. Our nation has been destroyed so many times, we only gather all together for the Arlathvhen once every ten years.”

“It is true, Dirthamen,” the Harel on the Right said. “We’ve seen it.”

“Some Dalish believe if we stay hidden in the forests, the humans will eventually wipe each other out and leave the world to us,” Eirwen added. “However, every year there are more humans and fewer Dalish.”

“Fascinating,” Dirthamen murmured.

She started.

“Not the isolationism,” he said with a wave of his free hand. “Isolationism is a slow death, a fool’s errand. Circled wagons are lost resources. Your Dalish are bleeding to death, working to stem the inevitable tide as they can.”

Eirwen frowned, irritated. The Dalish had fought hard to hold onto their traditions, driven to near annihilation so many times. Perhaps their isolationist tendencies were leading to a slow death, but they had no other choices. _He speaks so clinically._ Even more so than Solas, she thought. The same sweeping statements with no justification other than an awareness of his staggering reputation.

Dirthamen glanced at the left-side Harel. “How long has it been since the Veil rose?”

“Five thousand years,” Harel replied.

His gaze returned to her. “And how long do your people live?”

“In good health?” She paused. “A hundred, perhaps, same as the humans.”

“Only a hundred?” His mouth pulled sideways into a grimace. She’d seen the expression on Solas’ face enough times to recognize distaste. “What a depressingly short lifespan. How many times has a rebuilt elven nation been destroyed?”

“Twice to three times if we count Tevinter,” replied Harel. “With more than half a millennia of slavery during the intervening years, give or take a few centuries.”

Eirwen glanced at Harel in surprise. _He’s up on history for someone who spent the last part of their life stuck in a cave._

“To be returned either as slaves or second class citizens stripped of their culture,” Dirthamen mused. His fingertips traced his lips. “Within a few generations and at the mercy of a competent system, they’d be little more than shadows of the ruling class.”

“Yes,” Eirwen murmured.

He chuckled. “Banalvhen.”

She understood a little better why they called him the God of Knowledge, and the God of Secrets. He knew a great deal, but he spoke like the University scholars, or the Chantry clerks, or even the mages educated in the Circle. He reminded her of conversations she’d had with Dorian or Vivienne, and it didn’t take much to remember Solas often felt the same. He didn’t sound or feel Dalish, though he was elven. In the end, the Elvhen were just as alien as the other cultures.

Her lips pursed.

Dirthamen’s mind worked so very fast. He put it all together so quickly, cramming a whole history of suffering and loss into a few sentences.

He sounded like a pompous asshole.

_A pompous asshole who makes sense._

Solas was an ass too, except he gave her what he saw as fact and never explained the context. Unquestionable truth to him, maybe, but it couldn’t be taken without blind acceptance. Couldn’t be believed without trust, a trust he’d intended to betray. _Dictated his expectations and believed the world should follow._ His questions often felt like traps designed to inform whoever he spoke to of how stupid they were. Discarded for missing obvious steps or gaps in logic which only he could see.

They were similar, she decided. Both assholes whose thoughts were tantalizingly close, but always just out of reach.

Her eyes dropped to their casually interlaced fingers. “Though, how do you know?”

“It is the state of history,” Dirthamen replied. “We did it to others, now your people bear the weight of our sins as the humans perpetuate them. Ironic, really. I see why our dear Dread Wolf has bundled himself into a knot.”

Eirwen frowned. “We’re on the bottom,” she said. Solas’ statements sometimes reminded her of the same angry saber rattling the hunters made around the fire. The older elves who told tales of Halamshiral and the Dales. About the lands the Orlesians stole from them. “We should be on top.”

“You’re a perceptive lass,” the Harel across the table said. “I see why he chose you.”

She glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.

Harel smiled his razor edged smile.

It left her unsettled.

Dirthamen sighed. “When your life’s experience is looking down from the heights, it can be difficult to start on the ground. It is a matter of what one is used to, rather than what is. Trick any young noble into destroying Orlais, leave him a wandering beggar on the changed streets of his homeland, and you’ll find the results rather similar.”

“Without the godlike power,” Eirwen said.

He laughed. “Fair point, Renan.”

She leaned forward. “What was Elvhenan really like?”

Dirthamen tilted his head, his free hand rising of the table, and stopped before it reached her face. He lay it back on the table. His eyes went with it. “We began as a cooperative society,” he said. “Before it became a means of ensuring a caste system and a form of order, it was our way of aiding each other through our transition into flesh. We learned that by combining our strength, we could fuel greater, lasting magic than we might alone.”

Oh, Eirwen thought. It made sense. Why she woke up feeling better than she had in the last three months, maybe years. _I thought it was the sex._ But no, the vallaslin made the difference. “So, the vallaslin feeds in two directions,” she whispered. “I felt weaker, more… mortal when I woke, more like myself.”

“Training wheels,” Harel said. “Much like a child bound into a saddle, so they might learn their seat in order to ride. The older elvhen binds another to them, absorbing off the excess magic destabilizing their connection to this plane until the child has learned to balance themselves.”

“Only some never learned and thus were never released,” the other Harel said. “Their power fed into the greater good of the Empire. The more they bound, the bigger they built.”

“What is a citizen?” Harel asked. He leaned across the table, settling on his forearms. His black eyes studied her. “Is it one who is one naturally born of elven bodies or a spirit drawn entirely from the aether? Is it one born within the Empire itself or a foreigner who travels from distant lands? What of those conquered? Do they have rights and should they be equal to the ones who came before? Does a new voice have more virtue than one aged by experience?”

Eirwen frowned.

“There are no easy answers to those questions,” the other Harel said.

“There are some very easy answers to those questions,” she countered.

“Would you accept a City Elf as Dalish?” Harel asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “If they fulfilled our training, made their kill, and didn’t make a sound as the vallaslin was written on their skin.”

“Would you accept a human if they passed your trials?” the other Harel asked. “Would that human be Dalish?”

Her mouth opened, then shut. No sound escaped. No one ever asked that question before. In some Clans, not even the elf blooded human children were allowed to stay amongst the People. Even if they were raised Dalish, many returned to the cities or found themselves exiled. Often, they met tragic ends.

“I don’t know,” Eirwen said.

“And if you rebuilt a Dalish civilization within the Dales only for the elves,” Harel continued. “Created by Dalish elves and for Dalish elves, what would happen to the humans who currently live there? What of the elves who would not convert?”

 _I don’t want a civilization that is Dalish only,_ she thought irritably, but she saw his point. Evicting the humans led to resentment and resentment brewed a similar cycle when they or their ancestors returned to take back their homes. Killing them in a bloodbath was a simpler solution, and genocide. Crafting a caste system and subjugating the humans as the elves had been, well… the same inevitabilities occurred. _None of which are particularly comfortable._

“We’re discussing nearly fifty thousand years of continuous evolution from an age when the concept of time had less meaning,” Dirthamen said, his fingers gave hers another squeeze. “You need not answer any of them now.”

She glanced at him, surprised again by the warm compassion in his golden irises. _I wonder if it’s real._ A small smile tugged the right side of her mouth. “I’ll have to eventually, won’t I?”

He inclined his head. “Yes, if you wish to build an entirely new system of government.”

Eirwen sighed. “I foresee a future full of headaches.”

Dirthamen patted her hand. “Welcome to the quandaries of ruling.”

“Request Dirthamen give you a massage,” the other Harel said lightly, his smile sly. “Ensuring a long life means relief of tension.”

Next to her, Dirthamen stiffened. His eyes narrowed and he straightened, irritably. “Ignore them,” he said. “The quick version makes our transition sound less complicated and more nefarious than it was. The dangerous notion hidden within sentiments such as the good of all often means smaller freedoms are sacrificed to protect the greater good.”

Eirwen nodded. He was dizzying, all three of them were. _I just want to sit on the floor and rub my temples._ “You talk about running empires like it’s common conversation to have over brunch. I’ve dined with ambassadors and empresses, but we never spoke like this.”

“Then they did not see you as either ally or peer,” Dirthamen said. “They saw your naivete as a tool with which to manipulate you.”

“As we’re doing on a certain level,” Harel said.

“No.” Dirthamen smiled. “This will be the first of many long conversations.”

“I was tutored,” she said. “I did rule the Inquisition.”

“You were taught the fine art of manipulating those in power and ruling by proxy,” Dirthamen said. “You were given power, then took power for yourself, all the while acting on another’s authority. There is little security in that. Soon, you will rule in your own right and by your own means.”

“It can’t be that easy.” Eirwen shook her head. An elf as the Herald of Andraste had been mad enough. The humans accepting her as she tore down their homes or their lands was another question entirely. She’d acted to restore, not create chaos. “How can you be so sure?”

“The only force which has any hope of stopping us prefers to stand in the shadows than interfere directly,” Dirthamen replied. “When he deigns to appear, he will be returned to them by the whips of logic; with the reminder he swore that the problems of this world were not his concern.”

She couldn’t help herself, she snorted. “I’m sure Solas will show up anyway.”

“Almost certainly,” Dirthamen said. “He’d never miss an opportunity to inform me of my wrongdoing.”

Her eyes narrowed, falling back to their interlaced fingers. For all his noble bearing which made him strangely human-like, he lacked soft hands. The undersides were hard, rougher, and more calloused than even most Dalish. Those hands knew the cost of hard labor. “Will you?”

“It depends on your point of view,” he replied.

She frowned.

Their eyes met and Dirthamen sighed. “Had I intention of repeating the past, I wouldn’t involve you.”

Nodding, Eirwen tried to smile. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“You know this world, Eirwen Lavellan,” one of the Harels said. “You understand its practical needs. Without you, we would only be conquerors.”

“With you, we are builders,” the other said.

“For what I intend,” Dirthamen said, “the nations of this world must be united. The commoners require a leader to rally behind, across their divides and differences.” He leaned forward. “You are such a leader.” He gestured to the orb in the center of the table. “That is why this is yours.”

“And so are we,” said the Harels.

“You’re kidding,” Eirwen whispered. “You’re giving me the foci?”

“No,” Dirthamen shook his head. “I cannot give it, no more than I can touch it. The foci is mine to safeguard and distribute, but it chooses its master. What I am offering you is of far greater significance than a bauble.”

“Corypheus used Solas’ orb to lift the Temple of Sacred Ashes into the sky,” she said. “It’s a bit more than a bauble.”

Dirthamen chuckled. “Forgive me, I forget your experience with magic is so limited.”

Eirwen swallowed, she supposed it was true. “What are you giving me, Dirthamen?”

“I am offering you the Trial of the Evanuris,” Dirthamen replied. “You are Evanura among your own people, but must prove yourself as a leader to mine. With your youth, it will require a Trial none can gainsay and a test none of the current Evanuris might pass.”

“What?” She jerked, but his hand held her fast. Had he gone completely mad? He wanted her to prove that she was Evanuris to a magical orb? While he’d called her Evanura when he’d sworn to her, she didn’t expect... _I thought it was a figure of speech._ At worst a false compliment, not genuine. She wasn’t even entirely sure the vallaslin vows were real. “Like Ghilnan’nain?”

“You’re moving too quickly, great one,” Harel said. “She doesn’t understand.”

Dirthamen sighed. “I forget that much cannot be communicated swiftly, but we are pressed for time.”

“I apologize for being slow,” Eirwen said stiffly.

“You are not,” Dirthamen replied. “I have not been awake long enough to grasp the vast differences in cultural context, what is communicated naturally for me is not for you.” He glanced at her. “Your ignorance will often prove infuriating, Renan. However, it is not your fault. A lack of education is only a loss of opportunity, any who would use lack of knowledge against your intelligence is a fool.”

Her brows rose. That was a jab against Solas.

“Fine,” Eirwen said. “You make me feel dumb.”

“Given our circumstances that is to be expected,” he replied. “Such a feeling will change in time.”

“Actually, for most, the aura of awe never quite goes away,” one of the Harels said.

“It is how he became a god,” the other Harel added.

Dirthamen smiled, his mouth had a way of quirking. It slanted sideways when he did. The kind of smug, pleased smirk Josephine called rakish.  “Were I not the least bit impressive, I’d be a poor example of my profession.”

 _He cares about what they think._ Odd, given the way they all referred to their relationship. Her lips compressed into a thinner line. More importantly, the way they were talking their plans sounded like they’d require a mucher longer liason than a few years. “So, we’re planning on making this as permanent arrangement?”

He frowned. “Would I have sworn to you otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” she said, remembering he still held her hand. “I’m still not sure how this works.”

“The orb bears the heart and spirit of the Elvhen,” Dirthamen said. “The collected wisdom and strength of the People. There were four once. Four for the next generation of Evanuris to stand against the Blight and the Blight-ridden.” His free hand swept over it. “This is the last, the strongest of them all; and, as such, it is the most temperamental.”

“And you have to pass the test to wield it?” she asked.

“Pass the test and it becomes yours,” Harel replied. “Tied intrinsically to your very nature. No other may use it.”

Eirwen frowned. “So, how did Corypheus use Solas’?”

“Unused for so long, he cracked the lock with brute force,” the other Harel answered. “This is a different situation.”

“With potentially similar results,” she replied, remembering the waxy corpses at Haven.

Harel chuckled. “You will kill fewer in failure than Corypheus did in success.”

“I wish I felt better about it,” Eirwen muttered.

“Should you pass the test, no elvhen shall have the means to gainsay you,” Dirthamen said. “It is dangerous, however.”

Eirwen glanced around at each serious face. “Fall and die, fly and thrive?”

“Almost,” Harel replied. “Fail and disappear forever.”

Dirthamen flattened his palm on the table. “You must prove your worth in carrying the Elvhen or you become part of the collective whole, ready to give your strength, your knowledge, and your memory to those who shall come after you.”

Mouth falling open, Eirwen paused. Then, she swallowed. “Oh.”

“You must have gone mad during the long sleep, great one,” the other Harel said.

“More so than you already were.”

“We are short on time,” Dirthamen replied. “Had we a hundred years to prepare, it might be different. We do not.” His golden eyes rose, palm flattening on the table. A commanding, unshakeable gaze fixed on the other two. “Fen’Harel’s support must be undercut now.”

Her lips twitched, a tiny smile quirking in the corner of her mouth. Shudders swept up her center, knotting into a ball in her stomach. His certainty was… exciting.

Harel leaned forward. “So, you will throw her into a test designed to destroy any who reached for it?”

“Every single individual who has tried, has failed.”

“The test was designed to cull the unworthy,” Dirthamen said with an irritated wave of his hand. “This included the other Evanuris, even myself.”

Eirwen glanced at the orb. “How many souls are inside it?”

“Around one hundred thousand,” the other Harel said. “Many swallowed up during the civil war, when Falon’din bathed the Empire in blood. More than enough to raise any elvhen to equal stature as one born in the beginnings of the First Age.”

Harel sighed. “Or restore the strength of an Evanuris taken by the long sleep.”

“These days, not all the spirits it contains are elvhen,” the Harel next to him added.

Slowly, Eirwen nodded. It still didn’t make sense. Not entirely. “So, you want me to take this test?”

“Die in it and he receives your power,” Harel said. “Pass it and through the vallaslin, he receives an even greater portion.”

“I would not,” Dirthamen growled. “If you die, Renan, I receive nothing. If you live, I will be empowered only so long as I wear your vallaslin.” His frown deepened. “Eventually, I will receive nothing at all.”

Both Harels glanced at him in surprise.

Eirwen’s eyes widened at theirs. _So, they expected him to use me just to empower himself._ Good to know where the Harels trust in him ended.

“Would Elgar’nan truly leave these in my safekeeping should there be the slightest possibility I intended to use them for myself?” Dirthamen asked. “Would he risk any of his children becoming more powerful than himself?”

“No,” both Harels agreed. “He would not.”

“However,” the Harel on the Left murmured. “If she dies…”

“I am not so frightened of losing hope that I am unwilling to risk everything,” Dirthamen snapped. His head turned and he fixed her with his fierce golden eyes, but his tone softened. Grew gentler. “I would not offer if I did not believe you capable.”

Eirwen smiled, she believed him. From their expressions, she knew she didn’t understand the depths or dangers of this request. Still, she’d given up so much just to reach this stage. There wasn’t much point not following through to journey’s end. “If what you’ve told me is true,” she said, “then it’s a danger I’m eager to embrace.”

Dirthamen smiled, though his was faint.

Both Harels studied her with their dark eyes.

Eirwen lifted her chin.

When the time came, it was necessary to lay down her life for what she believed. Regardless of the Inquisition’s strength, she couldn’t stand and fight alone.

_I don’t just want to stop Solas, I want to tear this world down to its foundations._

She wanted no more children starving in the streets. No more elves penned into human compounds. No more dwarves kept from rising beyond the realm of traveling merchants or forced into a life of crime once they left Orzammar. She wanted to no more nobles selling their tenants and Dalish elves crossing their territories into slavery. She wanted trade to be allowed to flow and for magic to flourish, rather than seeing it bottled up in Towers.

She’d no expectation of people doing what was right, only serving their self-interest. The point was leveling the playing field. An act which could not be done so long as the old institutions remained in place.

Her eyes settled on the orb in the center of the table.

_An alliance between modern elves and ancient._

Everything so many Dalish had wished for, aeon after aeon.

_This is our chance to reunite our people._

Her eyes met Dirthamen’s.

In this moment, it didn’t matter what that past was. It didn’t matter how terrible it had been. The decision of whether or not Elvhenan was awful or whether her own people should have any desire to return to it, or want it, had never been Solas’ decision to make. Regardless of what the likes of Abelas said, the Dalish and the City Elves both deserved a chance to make that choice for themselves.

_I’ve a duty to see to it that they are given that chance._

Free will was never a matter of making the best choice. It lay simply in the ability to choose at all. And if becoming Evanuris created that opportunity, then she would do it.

No questions asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one, so you'll be stuck waiting after this. It took me forever to write the past three chapters because now I've got to make good on my plotz and do the reveals (on top of getting really sick and stressed out, which is incredibly unfun). 
> 
> I did my best to make this dialogue feel natural, there was a lot to cover. It's easier to do Elvhenan memories from the perspectives of characters who know something because there's more ways to communicate it, but I wanted Eirwen's perspective because she's the one who has to make the big choices.
> 
> However, balancing Eirwen's dreams/desires against Solas and Dirthamen is always a good time. As a personal choice, I really think that Eirwen is a character attempting to facilitate if not carry "the will of the people". Much as she wants to beat back against the nobles, what she truly wants deep down is to give her people the option of deciding what world they want. To give a voice to those who've had theirs stolen from them or are locked out of the system.
> 
> In the end, she wants a meritocracy but she also understands that the people might not want that. In a way, she's similar to Akane Tsunemori from Psychopass. It's okay, really, if people end up choosing a dictatorship or want to go back to the way things were in Elvhenan, but they deserve the chance to make that choice for themselves rather than having it chosen for them. 
> 
> You can't just expect it to happen either, you've got to fight for it and in a world like Thedas fight for even the chance to give someone the choice. You've got to take the reins, reorder the board, and set up a new system where people have a voice.
> 
> Freedom is simply the ability to choose your own path in life according to your desires, but it has to be balanced with society's needs. 
> 
> Solas' ideals are, at their heart, libertarianism. In the end, they're pie in the sky. A system that only works if everyone unilaterally ops in. In the real world, it ends up eventually creating the same exact system that he is railing against because there were no protections for everyone to pursue their own paths. Someone will always want the biggest piece of the pie and people will always join forces with each other to force others out of business, take control of the land for themselves. His beliefs work in a world where people aren't people or in one where someone else did the heavy lifting to create a just (ish) system for him to rail against.
> 
> Nothing he does will really change that.
> 
> Without that, you've got feudalism.
> 
> Elf Master Race.
> 
> Eirwen is, ironically, on the opposite side of the spectrum. She's much more of a socialist. However, she's also a got a cold, ruthlessly pragmatic side that will lead her to destroy everything in pursuit of her ideals. Mostly her personal relationships and betray her friends because they stand for an institution that she feels needs to be brought down. I don't think she thinks that the Chantry religion as a whole needs to go. However, like the Catholic Church, the base has to be broken.
> 
> It makes her fun to write though and, I hope, fun to read.


	26. Chapter 26

Eirwen sat alone in the cabin, settled into Dirthamen’s black egg-shaped chair. Her legs tucked up, cross-legged. Her hands on her knees. Her eyes narrowed on the foci left at the center of the table. Her lips pursed, and she frowned.

The room shifted between pale light and shadow. Moonlight glinted through the window, flickering with each passing cloud. The darkness came and went. Uncertain, in its own way.

She decided not to take it for a sign, though the Keeper would have said such light on this night spoke to the gods uncertainty.

Yet, she knew, the gods did not speak at all.

Were not gods at all.

They were mages imbued with the strength of their followers. Ancient, vast, and dangerous, but not unknowable. An uncovered truth which would break the fundamentalists, those who saw a literal truth in their religion. Who believed the stories were not just stories, but real and exact. With nothing lost in their retellings.

She did not believe it, yet she also was asked to take up the burden.

The foci rested in the center of the table, the place the Harels set it before they left her to consider. It was so similar to the one Corypheus carried. An orb not much larger than her hand, formed of simple, smooth stone. A lost artifact of her people, containing a power Solas would insist they had no right to. A power Dirthamen invited her to claim. For the future. 

A simple choice to make, yet surprisingly difficult in execution.

So Eirwen sat for hours, contemplating.

She didn’t want to see the smooth, circular object in front of her as the promise of power. Power brought obligation, and responsibility. She’d spent the last three years in the Inquisition carrying this weight, with the fate of the world riding on her decisions. 

Now, she was about to leap into the fire again without looking back. Whether it was on the promise of adventure, or boredom, or a desire to see the downtrodden lifted up, or her people given a place of safety to regard as their own, she’d pick up the foci.

Eirwen wasn’t sure any of her reasons mattered, really.

Power could sometimes be given but, more often, it was taken.

Dirthamen wasn’t giving her power, so much as a chance to take it for herself. So those in her care could be protected, so her world and the people in it could have a shield against Solas’ destruction. Against the Evanuris’ rise.

It didn’t matter if those people in this world were good or bad. Most people from the best to the worst lived by varying degrees of evil, cast adrift in shades of gray. They killed to protect their families, protect their homes, or keep their children from starving. The lack of compassion and aid for those in difficult circumstances in a society constructed to produce failure and keep those on the bottom in their place, that was the true evil.

And whether they were nobles without magic, mages, or self-proclaimed gods, it didn’t seem to make a difference. Those who propelled their rise by forcing others down, by scapegoating entire cultures and religions for believing differently from themselves. Those were the issue. Those were what must be destroyed.

Revolutions came when all other options were exhausted. Only fools dreamt of a revolution. The wise knew the innocent suffered most as the combatant line disappeared. They came as a last resort, a desperate gamble when hope vanished. Acting on the knowledge they were just as likely to fail as succeed.

_ Inciting revolution is Solas’ act, and the response to it is what he expects.  _ She closed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath.  _ The way to defeat it is to take a diagonal tact and not fight on that battlefield at all. _

Revolution was what Solas wanted. If he fought like a rebel, then he would build his base on shadow strikes, hiding in the existing societal structure, and predicate recruitment upon the idea that this world would never improve no matter the course taken. That the only hope was anarchy or, worse, no hope at all.

Delay required chaos. A brutal restructuring of the system itself from the bottom up rather than the top down, reorganizing civilization at every level. Set a fire and watch the rats run.

This foci would deliver her with the means to take control of Dirthamen’s army. If she had his aid and his army, then winning the Dalish back with the promise of a revival of their heritage would be much easier. She could approach the surface dwarves, aid the common human peasants, and bring aid to the Elven Alienages in exchange for their support.

She’d have an army to move on Orlais with or without the Inquisition.

Eyes leaving the orb, Eirwen looked up at the ceiling.

“I don’t need Elvhen power to achieve that,” she told herself. “A foci would just make it easier. Power provides more options.”

All she had to do was risk her life for it.

WIth a sigh, Eirwen flopped back into the chair.

Dirthamen promised her space, but she could still feel him moving somewhere beyond the cabin. The Harels he left behind, to watch over her in his stead and prepare her for the test if she decided she needed it.

Neither left her totally comfortable.

Her eyes returned to the foci.

“I’d rather just dive in.”

Make the gamble. Take the risk. 

Lose everything she was to become something greater. A process she’d already begun with Mythal’s aid. One she intended to finish before losing too much time.

Slowly, she reached out and seized the orb with her right hand.

 

***

 

“Are you certain of this, Dirthamen?”

Dirthamen glanced at the pair. Watching them as they studied him with their flat, black eyes. They stood still, as dark shadows against the crisp white snow. The corner of his mouth lifted, pulling into a slight smile. “I am not.”

“Even if he were not, nothing can be done. The trial has begun,” one Harel said to the other. “We cannot turn back now.”

“Which one of us will stand against Fen’Harel, should he come?” the other asked.

“I will preempt him in a place which benefits him,” Dirthamen replied.

“Which benefits you both,” Harel said.

His gaze dropped and he glanced up the hill to the small cabin. The path to the future was all in her hands now. He merely needed to buy her the time to prove it should be. “Perhaps.”

“He will not stand for it, you know,” Harel added, kicking a drift of snow. It shifted, white, as powder tumbled down the hill toward the lights flickering in the valley’s depths below. “Creating a god to kill gods.”

“Is that what you believe?” Dirthamen asked. He stroked his lips, miming the act of returning warmth to them, and blew into his hands.

Both Harels glanced at him in unison, their brows lifted.

“We Evanuris are best at pursuing our own vengeances and vendettas,” Dirthamen said. “They merely require an opportunity and, once provided, they take care of themselves.” He rubbed his fingers together with a smile. “We have never acted in unison. There have always been rivalries, always fractured edges, ancient resentments, and fraying alliances. All they require is a change in venue, a few new weaknesses to bring those desires out.”

“Of course,” Harel murmured. “They will kill each other.”

The other Harel smiled. “It is all they know.”

He nodded. “Fen’Harel has crafted this glorious shadow world, provided us the opportunity. We need only provide the pieces.”

Snow fluttered through the dark, twinkling in the moonlight.

The Harels glanced at each other.

“Mortality,” they breathed.

He tilted his head, glancing up at the moon overhead. “By dragging them here, we will have the opportunity to eviscerate this madness before it is once again given a chance to take hold.”

“In this shadow world,” he said, “parted from the Blight, they will merely be strong like Corypheus.” He shrugged. “Or less, without their stored power.”

“The blood link in the Dalish vallaslin is broken,” Harel said.

“It does not function,” the other one whispered. “They receive no power from their prayers.”

“Returning to the beginning would be a necessity,” Dirthamen said, “their priests are dead, and, with Elgar’nan consumed, only Falon’din remembers the steps to re-create the bindings.”

“A dangerous game,” Harel murmured.

“The girl and the orb are the center, aren’t they?” Harel asked. “This was the failsafe.”

“Mother’s ultimate punishment made manifest,” Dirthamen replied. “Send us naughty children hurtling back into the world without our toys. Cast us out to walk among the People, to begin again. Few of my siblings remember a time before the gods. They joined the Council of Elders, but they didn’t not create it.” 

His eyes followed the trail up toward the cabin. Mythal did not remember now, though she began this quest time and again. Began it in fits and starts, only to stop and lose track. Her overwhelming desire for vengeance undercut by a more sophisticated punishment, one more damaging and dangerous and destructive in the long term. Whether she knew it consciously or not, she chose Eirwen Lavellan to pursue the alternative. Someone to rip the mad gods from the heavens and send them tumbling to earth, to re-learn humility and respect for those they were meant to serve.

He glanced at the Harels. “Mythal is broken. She does not know now, does not remember, but this was always her goal. She wished for her children to walk the world as every other elf, to remember compassion before power drove us mad. Though, she didn’t intend to be the sacrifice. Neither did Falon’din, though he sought to subvert this by destroying her and sealing her in the foci. Falon’din believed he could use it to escape were he to be caught in Fen’Harel’s web. To be the only god in all the world.” He blew a cloud of steam up toward the moon and the drifting silver trails covering the stars. “He failed, but together we accidentally created a backdoor into Mother’s plan. Now, I will see her vision finished.”

A twinge of guilt twisted in his gut. It was not what he had told her, though what he did say was not a lie. They would still require an army loyal enough to march into darkness, still need to conquer. A god made mortal was still a god, a god made mortal could regain their immortality, and a mortal ascended could stand equal to the others in time. 

Whatever Fen’Harel insisted they had been, he could not change what they were.

Lost, confused, and de-powered, they’d be far easier to dispose of.

“You know where the Melanada Vunin reside?” he asked.

Both Harels nodded.

“Go to them,” he said. “Tell them to begin their journey to the Valley of Tears, I will meet them there.”

Harel arched a brow. “This will be the last?” 

“Should Eirwen Lavellan succeed, I shall have no hold over you,” Dirthamen replied. “A new mistress provides you with an escape and the freedom to pursue your vengeance.”

Harel studied him, Dirthamen felt their paired gaze and magic lean on his defenses. Cautious with hope, but looking for the lie. “On you?”

“On me, on the others, on any you see fit,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You alone out of all the People know I do not see the future, I merely predict outcomes based on observation.” He started up the hill, back to them. “Pursue me or do not. The choice is yours.” 

“We’ll do as you say,” one of the Harels called back after him. “And decide.”

A gust rushed against his back and he glanced up to see a pair of ravens soaring above his head. They turned, heading for the western horizon on the valley’s opposing end. 

He watched them go, until they vanished into the dark.

“Just as well,” Dirthamen murmured, hands resting at his sides. “I too must prepare for a meeting with Shem’Harel and buy the Girl some time.”

If Fen’Harel appeared whenever Eirwen Lavellan threw herself into truly life-threatening danger, then this time would be no different. She deserved the chance to make it through without incident and wake to witness him fulfill the first of his promises.

He would bring the hasty fool back.

Tonight, the first brick would be laid. 

Dirthamen smiled. The yappy dog never understood the road to success. There was no better way to win than co-opt your enemies plan for your own.  A pawn fancied himself a wizard or a queen, but never realized that the player was just another piece. If one learned to move on the board as a piece while moving the pieces as the player, they achieved mastery of the game. Fen’Harel could not avoid being a piece anymore than Dirthamen himself, but he had yet to move himself in accordance with those who wished to play him so he might simultaneously always travel toward beneficial goals.

Eirwen Lavellan had the potential to understand, and her future relied on realizing this single truth. In success, she was decided to become the focal point of a thousand more games. Pressed by players vastly more experienced. To win, her weaknesses must become her strengths. Her vision sharpened. Her instincts honed.

Step by step, it would all come together.

He would teach her how to play and, eventually, how to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it took awhile to get around to writing an update. Between the move, the illness, crushing depression, and the new job, it's been hard. However, I'm not giving up. Updates may be slow, but they'll come. Hopefully faster once I settle into a new routine.
> 
> I thank you all for your patience and I hope you enjoy!


	27. Chapter 27

Cold air filled her lungs as the girl jerked awake. White, hot light filled her eyes.  She bolted upright, only to fall back. Bare shoulders striking a wooden post. Her hands rose together to cover her eyes, bound together by a pair of manacles. Metal itched her neck. A collar tightened around her throat.

It was a feeling she recognized, the panic which followed just as familiar.

Bare feet slammed into a stone floor, callused toes dragging across a smooth surface. It turned bumpy and she rolled, finding uneven etchings. Her legs lifted her lower back and butt, until the collar cut into her skin.

She screamed.

Black and white dots floated before her as the light cut through her eyes, vision flickering in and out. Vocal chords buckling, bulging, wrenching against metal.

As if will could crack it.

Will _should_ crack it.

Eirwen… was that her name? whipped sideways. Left side striking the ground. Thighs and calves, sweaty meat, slapped across the surface. Her neck jerked, straining against the chain. Her windpipe squeezed, compressed. She gasped, cut off from air. Throwing her arms to the right, she rolled and hit the floor.

The world faded, dimmed into white spotlights.

The chain grew taught.

Her toes scraped the slick surface, scrabbled as she scooted back.

A shadow passed before the lights.

“Do you know who you are?” asked a voice. Soft and melodic, it rang like silver bells.

Soft, melodic, and _female_.

Eirwen jerked upright, banging her back against the pole. Head thrown back, her eyes searched the burning light for the shadows. Tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth, she gasped. Air swung up her nose and hurtled down her throat. She gulped it down, expanding her chest in rapid beats. It caught in her throat, heated as its fires stoked her mouth raw. Each gasp grew warmer, burned. Wracked by pain, Eirwen shuddered against the pole. Pain, she remembered, was an inherent and necessary part of the process... part of being born.

“Do not answer, your face reveals much and the soul cage offers up the rest. You have been stripped, and left wanting,” the cool dismissal was clear.

Pushing herself onto the balls of her feet, Eirwen scrambled back. She tucked against the pole, its surface hard and sharp against her back. A shock of white hair fell across her eye. White? No. Orange.

“Fear not, da’len. Your mind will clear soon.” The shadow crossed across the light. Soft footfalls carried the woman past her, circling. A predatory beast shifting between white-hot beams. “When the passage of the self ceases, when the panic fades, and your remains filter through the soul cage. Then, you shall be less a beast.”

The voice was soothing, but it did not soothe. It wracked against her soul, screeching like knives grinding into stone. Though the words expressed the intended sentiment, the gesture remained hollow.

Eirwen forced thoughts to come.

_There is no safety when one is bound._

“Do you know who you are?” the question repeated.

She found her mind in checkered pieces, all bits of black and white, and in between the beams. Her feet flattened on the floor, toes curling against stone. She was more than her feet, she decided. More than her screams. Slowly, she lifted her chin. “Eirwen,” she said. “I’m Eirwen.”

“A name, I see,” the voice murmured, dryly. “That by which you call yourself. And what is the purpose of a name, da’len? Remembered without meaning, known only in ignorance. A name given, a designation made by another. Defined by the hopes and wishes of those who come before, defiled by the fulfillment of a promise. Is that who you are?” Her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth. “No, I think not.”

Eirwen leaned forward, strained against the collar. Bits of self trickled in between her ears and gave her the proper answer. Answer a question with a question. “Does it matter? I am myself.”

The voice paused, then a foot tapped on the stone. “A child of the snow?” She sounded amused. “A soul born of the fire? You were Summer; recrafted by those who wished for Winter.”

Eirwen paused, her lips compressed. The proper answer was that she hadn’t. If anything, she’d fulfilled the vision in her naming. White Snow, her parents called her. Only to be disappointed when she was born with orange hair and rosy cheeks. No beautiful blonde coloring, no fragility, no ghostly pale skin. Dispassion hidden inside a clever, quick witted troublemaker. Now, her red head turned white. Locked in Winter’s embrace, she fulfilled her parents’ prophecy. “No,” she said. “I suppose not.”

“Only a fool believes it possible to redefine another’s definition.” Her cool voiced called up memories of icy peaks and frozen rivers. “Only a fool believes their fate may be changed.”

“And only a fool is fool enough to try,” Eirwen replied.

The proverb was an old one. To defy one’s placement in the Clan was to defy the gods and the path chosen for them. Defiance was to be discouraged. There were no deciding actors among the Dalish. All paths destined by gifts given. The gods were gone, but their gifts remained. Lingering in the blood of their children. Even lost, one could not stand against them.

Only a fool fought the tide.

“It makes sense.” Eirwen leaned against the post, eyes closing. Manacled hands rested on her knees. Exhaustion settled deep into her bones as the white hot light burned in spots against her eyelids. “I am a fool.”

The woman laughed. “And you take comfort in foolishness. In the knowledge that if you cannot do, you at least try.”

“Better that than stand by and do nothing,” Eirwen replied.

The woman’s footsteps grew closer. “Suffering is a part of life, da’len. In aiding others, in saving them from themselves, you cheat them of their chance for growth. Have you not grown strong in the face of your own trials? Would you deny them the same?”

Eirwen frowned, nails digging into her palms. She remembered a little more now, bit by bit. “I deny them nothing. Hard as I worked, I was fortunate. In a rigged system, there is a limit to how high one can climb through their own abilities. What is the point of trailblazing if a path doesn’t open for those left in my wake?” Her head rested against the pole. “Failure is part of life, and change is suffering, but I want to provide those at the bottom with hope. That if they strive for it, any place in this world could be theirs.” Her mouth tugged sideways. “Within reason. Not everyone will try, but some will. They should know that if they have faith in their own hard work, they will have a chance for success.”

“Heh,” the woman scoffed. “So many dreams, so much to lose. Will you cry, child, when those dreams crumble? When you witness all you’ve built burned to ash by those you fought so hard to save?”

Eirwen grit her teeth. “No.”

“Open your eyes, da’len.” Fingers seized her jaw. “Tell me true.”

She did as she was bid, and found herself staring into a pair of ancient golden eyes set within an elven face. High cheekbones, skin stretched taught. A face without sags or wrinkles common in old age, but it was not young. Ageless, she thought, with wise, jaded eyes.

“No,” she repeated. “When what has been is burned to ash then the only logical answer is to build again. A dream cannot die until we cease fighting for it. It dies when we are too afraid of what might be lost to take risks, too ashamed of what has already been, and too frightened of our mistakes.”

“And how do you know yourself to be the one, White Snow, trapped as you are by yourself?”

“If I choose my fate, am I still trapped by it?” Eirwen countered. “Do I make fate or does fate make me? If fate cannot be avoided, what does it matter except in perception?”

A sardonic smile cut across a beautiful mouth.

“I either chose or I was chosen.” She lifted her chin. “If I am worthy then I will succeed, and if I am not then I’ll die. I believe in myself. Whether that is ego or arrogance, I will find a way.”

The elven woman released Eirwen’s chin and stood.

She stood tall, Eirwen thought. Walked with light steps, unbowed by the world’s weight. Only the Elvhen walked so well, their pride different from those who walked the Wilds and survived human world’s harshness. A world which sought to destroy their last vestiges of Self. Their worth was innate. They never fought endless battles necessary to keep their pride intact.

“I will consider your advice should you wish to give it, but I do not require your approval,” Eirwen added. Her soft voice strengthened as her eyes lifted to meet the other woman’s golden gaze. “I don’t need you.” She was Dalish, her pride was hard fought and hard won. Forged in fire, yet to be shattered by ice. The Elvhen were another set of conquerors, no different from any other. “I am Dalish; keepers of the lost lore and walkers of the lonely path.” She lifted her chin. “Never again shall we submit.” Her eyes narrowed. “Never will I submit.”

White strands wreathed high cheeks, full lips, a long narrow nose, and golden eyes. The pale skin about those eyes crinkled as the woman’s mouth curved into a smile, and once again the world about Eirwen evaporated into white-hot light.

 

***

 

Solas stood at the window, facing the mountain’s jagged line. His eyes on the snow capped peaks, the dark dots of trees peppering white slopes. He studied them, not so much for the purpose of seeing but to remember. He could not help his distraction. A sign of how far his discipline had slipped in recent months. Instead of preparing to solve the traps Eirwen and her mysterious partners laid for him, instead of proceeding with his plans to lower the Veil, he remembered the feel of cool lips against his, her thin body pressed to his chest. The way her chin tilted, and their noses brushed. The longing, breathlessness after the kiss as their lips drifted apart. The brief, warm seconds before her eyes opened. Long lashes fluttering, sweeping his skin.

He readily acknowledged his patheticness, knew himself to be more dog than wolf. Trailing after the woman he betrayed in hopes of a touch, a glimpse. Like a drowning man grasping for any line with which he might tug himself to shore. He did not enjoy the feeling, yet saw no means with which to divest himself of it. He desired to save her from herself, desired to save her from him. Hoped, perhaps, she might save him in turn. The parts torn between his duty to fix what he broke, and his wish to be her champion. To aid her in the dark times, to fight beside her again as he had before.

Solas closed his eyes, fingers dropping to the blue crystal hanging about his neck.

“She is beautiful,” Cole whispered from behind him, echoing his thoughts. “She is real.”

“Yes,” he replied. What had been was already broken, yet he clung to the pieces. He could not let go. So long as he held onto them, he held onto her. She was part of this shadow world, inseparable. He sighed, and glanced over his shoulder to where the spirit boy stood. _What I wish for and what must be are separate,_ he thought. The Dread Wolf championed none. “She is.”

“You are relieved I returned?” Cole asked.

Though Compassion’s presence troubled him, Solas smiled. Cole had seen neither Dirthamen nor Eirwen. That blindness might be passed on to other spirits, and in turn blinded him. If the Fade would not reveal them, then he might find no means to counter their actions or the Melanada Vunin’s until  it was too late. If… he withheld another sigh, if he wanted to counter them at all. If Dirthamen capitalized on his distraction and took Eirwen as a pawn… he shook his head. “My mind is troubled by many, Cole, but never you.”

Cole smiled.

Cole, his last link to the Inquisition and to the past. A past he was certainly better off forgetting. Solas returned his gaze to the mountains, mind churning with questions. His body aching with frustrations. He should be contemplating the dangers represented by Dirthamen, keep his mind on the traps Eirwen lay within the Veil, on discovering who had aided her in such a ploy. Were other members of the Evanuris awake? Had they escaped the prison? He knew the story worthy of his attention. Yet, that was not where his thoughts turned nor the subjects they chased.

No, his mind remained on the goodbyes he kept uttering and never quite meant. On the goodbyes Eirwen almost certainly did. On the truth of this maddened state he could not yet move on from. Solas knew he must face his indecision. Commit to his choice. Yet he could not, not when Eirwen — the Eirwen he loved — was dying.

“You could help her, Solas,” Cole offered, answering his unspoken question.

“I refuse to aid her foolishness in these desperate attempts at suicide,” he growled. Should he try, she met him with resistance and they did nothing but yell at one another. She disturbed his moods like no other, and was often frustratingly _right_ . Too wise for her age, yet too foolish to understand her limits. Determinedly focused on her goals to the exclusion of all else. Chasing risk, too often only for the thrill of it. If he was gone, who would catch her when she tried to fly? His mouth set, the answer to that unhappy thought bubbling to his mind’s surface. _Dirthamen._ He did not enjoy the idea. Surely, she would not… “I will not be held hostage by her.”

“She doesn’t chase the future for you,” Cole said. He ghosted to the window, staring morosely out across the jagged expanse. “She forges a new path.”

He blinked. “Can you feel her now, Cole?”

Cole nodded, yellow eyes hooded beneath his hat’s wide brim. “She is... in a place beyond the shadow’s reach, where she cannot be hidden.” His eyes rose. “Where the soul is caged.” His voice trembled. “I don’t like it, Solas.”

Solas sighed, that did indeed sound like a place Eirwen would be. Though, he could think of few places Cole’s words described. Compassion was neither a creature of hyperbole nor exaggeration. No, he was nearly always literal. “She is in the Fade?”

Cole shook his head.

This smelt of Dirthamen, Solas decided. Though what he might want with Eirwen was anyone’s guess. _What foul, rotten plot are you forming, brother?_ he wondered. Why trap the Inquisitor in a soul cage? Then, the thought died in Solas’ mind as he shook his head. Again, he fell so far short of where he should be where others required him to be. Again, he found himself adrift. Caught between the desire to save his world and his love.

Cole's statement tumbled through is mind. He knew... something. _Where the soul is_ stripped. Cole said. _A place where it is purified,_ he thought. _A soul cage,_ that struck a chord in his memory. There had been an ancient promise, a lie and a truth. In the beginning, as he remembered, the Evanuris had positioned themselves as ascended avatars of the Elvhen.

Given life by their desires, made more by worship, they protected the People’s soul and guarded their world. That was the promise, what they were supposed to be. Should any Elvhen embody that heart, they too could rise from the ranks to stand beside their Gods. The path was not meant for individuals, but for ideals. To become Evanuris was to sacrifice the self. To become the purest expression of an idealized self. All else burned away, lost to purification’s fires.

Solas turned away. That was fantasy. A paltry legend meant to pacify dullards foolish enough to believe it. The truth was far more mundane. They were simply the ones who made names for themselves. He closed his eyes. There were many on the Council whom he’d never known before their ascension. Dirthamen was one. Falon’din another. Elgar’nan, Mythal, June, and Andruil, who or what they’d been in before his birth remained mysteries. His fingers clenched. There’d been no test. He’d earned his place without the Evanuris’ permission. Mythal embraced him, and the others had no say.

His sighed, drawing on his memory. When worshipped the Evanuris represented the ideals and aspects of Elvhen culture. Supposed avatars rather than powerful mages who tricked others to worship at their false altars. If true avatars existed among them, he’d not met one. There were none who might take the path to ascension, who might choose power for its own sake, without the desire for personal gain. Who were willing to stand as Guardian. The only one who’d taken a test to ascend was Andruil's pet, Ghilan’nain. Gifted with one hundred thousand elvhen souls trapped inside a soul cage.

Solas’ eyes opened.

Eirwen... inside a soul cage.

“No,” he breathed. “No, such an orb could not have survived. It is not possible.”

And yet he did not know what treasures his brother secreted away during Arlathan’s final days. He and Falon’din and created others, he knew. Prepared them if their losses in war ever determined it necessary to raise more of their followers to supposed godhood. Rumors whispered among Mythal’s followers suggested they’d trapped splinters of Mythal within one of those orbs. Though many searched, they could not find it. Unlike his own lost orb which safeguarded his power, there were focii whose power drew on the sacrificed souls of the Elvhen. Much like the Well of Sorrows, they contained the People’s wisdom. Thousands of high priests, master mages, devoted warriors who lay down their lives so the next Evanuris might be born. Within that focii lay the strength of his people, with power beyond imagining.

“She is Becoming, Solas,” Cole whispered.

“Dirthamen is not so foolish,” Solas snapped. “Never would he give an Evanuris focii to… no. He could not.” His eyes shut. “They were lost.”

Even if Dirthamen kept those lost focii in his possession, had kept them safe from trespassers and intruders all these millennia, no banalvhen could pass the test. Not even Eirwen, for all her strength. Solas swallowed, his thoughts racing. Yet, what was she but one who lived her life in service of an ideal? Who lost herself too often to ideation? Who joined herself with a spirit? Whose feet had been placed on a path she would walk no matter the cost… if it meant a better world for all those she loved.

_Command and Conquest. Vengeance and Justice._

He shook his head. He could not believe the form Eirwen would take — should she even be in process — was a being of war.

“Change,” Cole murmured.

Solas glanced at him. “You are correct, I suppose. Change is not without suffering or sadness. The Dalish live hard lives, they may desire control over the world.” He sighed. “Remake it as they wish it to be, what they believe it should be.” He paused and looked up to find Cole glaring at him. “What is it, Cole?”

“She is _Becoming_ , Solas.”

His heart froze.

Slowly, Solas turned to face the eluvian left on the far side of his quarters. Morosely, his reflection returned his gaze. A tired elf stood there, his expression wane and sad. Dressed in the golden armor he’d worn during the wars, he seemed small. The armor itself no longer suited to this world. A lost relic, just like himself. Before it had all been so distant, he thought. The world was a dream hovering on the edge of waking, the people moving about as players in fog. All lost to Shadow. She carved through it, bright as a sunbeam through the morning mist. Yet when the light struck his eyes, he refused to wake. He clung on to his dream of shadow men and women, of pieces rather than people. No matter how many times she nudged him, he refused. Duty insisted he sleep, that he move through the world dreaming. He could not accept the world he looked upon as the only world that was. These people were not his, they were broken. These children who played at magic could not be his people, separated from themselves. They could not be, not when the darkness Andruil released from the Void remained.

Solas studied his reflection in the eluvian.

Even when he knew Eirwen was real, he did nothing. Not even when she came close to Elvhen. What happened to her did not affect him, not truly. He repeated the same pattern, again and again heedless of the consequences. Yet it did not affect him. He loved her and his love for her did not affect him. He loved her as he loved the spirits he met in his dreams. She’d been just another spirit, a being he walked with in a dream. The world around him never quite real. She never quite her own person.

 _She is Becoming,_ Cole had said.

Solas closed his eyes. _She is becoming Evanuris._ He ignored her when she begged him to wake. Now, it was too late. _Power beyond imagining will again stride like a giant across this world._ Mythal’s strength might not be enough to combat a young Evanuris freshly born from a soul cage. He would face an Eirwen endowed with the knowledge and wisdom of those captured within the orb. Consuming them as the embryo fed upon nourishment in the egg. Breaking free like a bird from her shell to fly free.

He could not do battle with Eirwen. Eirwen whose spirit straddled the Fade and this Shadowed Realm. She would be an Eirwen blessed with the knowledge of the People. Undeniable. Real. _Real._ Pain slammed through him. _Real._

“If you’re real that means everyone could be,” Cole echoed his thoughts.

“It seems a lifetime has passed since those days we spent wandering the Dales,” Solas said. “Do you miss them, Cole?”

“Yes, but...” Cole trailed off. “They will never come again. Will they, Solas?”

He looked away. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid, the answer to your question is no. They will not.”

Again Solas remembered Eirwen’s loving blue eyes staring up at him, so young and hopeful. He remembered how he stripped Falon’din’s marks from her beautiful face. Remembered how he felt it then, the sunbeam striking through the fog. She had been so real then, standing there in what was once a temple to Sylaise. Her hair and skin lit by moonlight. She’d been so real, and he turned away. His fingers pressed to his forehead. What had he done? Every bit of damage inflicted on her by him had been just as real.

He knew then, logically, emotionally, yet had not truly felt it.

_Real._

Solas stared at his hands. Saw himself manacled in the Dread Wolf’s golden armor. His fingers stained with the blood and tears of the woman he professed to love. The Dalish were right to warn their youths. To think him a monster.

“That is correct, Dread Wolf,” a voice murmured from within the eluvian. "You are a monster, as are we all." 

His eyes narrowed, his blood ice in his veins. _Mythal._ Slowly, his eyes returned to the eluvian. “I believed you dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my life is crazy and I haven't had that much time to write creatively. 
> 
> On top of that, Solas likes to set up large and nasty roadblocks. I mean, it's Solas so always expect a troll. He really likes to repeat the same patterns over and over again. He's not much a leader, someone's got to give him direction. 
> 
> Eirwen drives the story forward.


	28. Chapter 28

The image shifted, ever so slightly and then Mythal replaced his reflection. Her human body stood there in her ancient armor. Hot golden eyes studied him, alight with intensity. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“Why did you not tell me then?” Solas snapped. “I mourned you.”

“I was one more soul sacrificed to our crusade,” Mythal replied. “You knew corpses would scatter this battlefield, Dread Wolf. One more matters little when a mountain of others lie behind it.”

Solas stiffened, his eyes fell again to his hands. Stained as they were with blood of so many.  The healer has the bloodiest hands, he’d said in his arrogance. Justified the pain to himself, for what was necessary. Destroyed his world to save it from itself. Prepared to destroy another again.

“Perhaps some worm their way inside us, and prove themselves more difficult to destroy.”

Solas’ mouth pressed in a line, perhaps Mythal could answer his question. “Has Dirthamen given the Inquisitor a...” he found he couldn’t bear to say it.

“She walks the vir’elgarthen, the way of the waking spirit,” Mythal said crisply. “She follows the path as Ghilnan’nain once did. Perhaps, she was always meant to.” Her upper lip curled. “We must hope for better results.”

_ Eirwen… _ she’d neither asked nor begged. He refused to meet on a plain of equals, now he would not be given a choice. Soon Eirwen Lavellan of Clan Lavellan would be gone, a new being with a new name emerging to take her place.

“Do not weep for innocence lost, boy. The girl is another sacrifice necessary to move our plan forward.” Her lips twisted. “Another piece moves on the board. Dirthamen will set me against myself. Though he creates a player instead of a pawn, the result remains the same.”

“I am your pawn also, am I not?” Solas said. “Would my actions truly have been left to me in the end? Or would I again be your servant, acting as a puppet to your will?” 

“There are many hands in this, boy,” Mythal said. “Hands even I did not see. Events such as these are no matter of chance. We are players and pawns. There is another whose hand moves us across the board, and this child is at the center of the vortex. No matter which hand shifts her position, she travels in the same direction. She attracts immortals like a flies to honey. Look closely, and you will see. She has been groomed.” 

“Groomed?” It made a horrifying sort of sense. “Are you certain?”

“My eyes still see the obvious. This child cannot exist on her merits alone. Someone shaped her as the potter shapes clay. Another who came into her life long before you or I. One who knew the trials to come.”

Solas paused. Mythal meant another of the Evanuris. Someone they did not see and could not sense. It troubled him. The others were vain creatures, exalted in blood, riches, and glory. The Dalish and their boneheaded ignorance should repel any interest. He tried to imagine Falon’din in his black and silver finery sitting in the woods, plucking bugs from trees and found himself stumped. Other than Elgar’nan, Mythal, Dirthamen, and himself, Falon’din was the only other available strategist.  _ Falon’din would go to Tevinter, surely.  _ “How can you be certain?”

Mythal sighed. “You know as well as I, such attractive vessels are not born. They are created. Molded from the moment of their birth. Nurtured with care, formed so they become the tool their creator desires them to be.” Her lips pursed. “I’ve seen mine for so many ages, I’ve grown accustomed to them. I forgot what the pawns of others look like.”

Solas turned his head. “Strange for you to admit weakness.”

“Humility is thrust upon me from time to time,” she replied dryly. “One lives with it.”

He sighed. “Very well, what do you believe this singular _ individual  _ is creating?”

Mythal laughed. “Is it not obvious, boy? A key.”

“The Voice,” Cole whispered.

“Yes,” Mythal nodded briskly. “The first evanuris for a new age. This spirit boy catches on quicker than you, Fen’Harel. First Corypheus and now this. You used to listen, but it seems time has dulled your wits.”

Solas glanced to where Cole lingered at the window. Mythal was right. Cole kept trying to tell him and he heard only what he wished to. “The others would never share their power. What use could there be in a new Evanuris?”

“Perhaps they intend to shore up support by expanding our little pantheon. Perhaps they intend to tear down the walls you erected. Perhaps they are planning a conquest of this world before the Veil falls.”

He frowned.

She laughed. “What, boy? Did you believe yourself alone in preparing for war?”

Solas returned gaze to Mythal, his mouth dry. On the one hand, he was glad she returned to her old self. Caustic, sarcastic, vaguely unpleasant, but unfailingly honest with her barbs. On the other, he wished she had told him there were other shards of herself wandering the world. “Do you know anything of Dirthamen’s plans? What he intends to do with…” he paused, “the Inquisitor?”

“He may take her for a lover,” Mythal said. “And why not? She is his type, after all.”

Solas stiffened, and realized he’d unconsciously clenched his fingers into fists.

Mythal’s lips curled in a smile, she seemed amused. “Does that bother you, Dread Wolf?”

“It would be no use for me to lie,” Solas replied, voice even. “I am bothered, as you knew I would be. I walk the din’anshiral for the People, that is why you lent me your strength.”

“Perhaps,” Mythal said. “It matters little in either case. There is nothing you or I might do about it. Sulevin repays his debts. Whatever he else chose to do upon his release, he would eventually offer that girl his aid.” She glanced away, looking at something in the distance. Something Solas could not see. “He never was one to squander talent.”

Eyes falling to the floor, Solas’ jaw clenched.  _ Locusts, all of them. _

“Dread Wolf,” Mythal’s harsh voice caught in his ears. “You must go and treat with him. Should the girl survive the vir’elgarthen, you must treat with them both.”

Her suggestion rattled. He knew, deep down, it would always be necessary to meet with Dirthamen and negotiate as they had in the old days. When the Evanuris battled one another, and their followers turned to easy sacrifices. The concord had been established by Elgar’nan and Mythal, the rules of battle laid out plainly. Or, it had in the days before the wars.  _ I thought I was ready to again be the Dread Wolf. _

“But Solas does not want that,” Cole said.

He glanced at the young spirit. “I thank you, Cole, but there is no need to worry.”

“Do not be fooled,” Mythal said. “This is not a request.”

“You would order me?” Solas asked, his voice hard. 

“Look at the challenge lain before us, Dread Wolf. Those two cannot be left unchecked.”

His eyes narrowed. He saw the path before him now. In order to achieve his goals, he’d have no choice but to barter for time. The Evauris once carved Thedas into pieces, lands where their personal rule reigned supreme. He’d not been one of them. Gone where he wished and done as he wished, and made his home within the safe confines of Mythal’s lands. He sighed. “It may not be necessary. I require only few scant years before our plan is set into play.”

“Dear boy,” she chuckled. “Soon, there will be nowhere to hide. What brews is war, war like in the old days.”

Solas shook his head. “I am well aware of Dirthamen’s predilections and his strategies.” 

“Do not underestimate him,” Mythal snapped. “Dirthamen is among the eldest of the Evanuris. He knew the world that was long before you.”

“Dirthamen is dangerous, yes. A font of knowledge if not wisdom. It is not his way to move openly or quickly. Not known for his skill or bravery on the battlefield.”

“That is where you are wrong, boy,” Mythal said. “Once, before your time, he was a general. He fought wars and conquered lands. Then, he turned his talents to rooting out dissenters, listening at doorways, and curating libraries.” She chuckled. “These human kingdoms will fall to him in weeks.”

“You sound proud,” Solas said. “It is almost easy to forget he is your son.”

Mythal ignored him. “You cannot afford to meet him in the field. Negotiate terms. Keep the peace in the necessary regions so your agents may move freely.”

Solas sighed, he knew she was correct. The human kingdoms posed minor threats to his agents, and none to him. The Evanuris, however, and those who followed them were a greater challenge. Dirthamen knew how to root out insurgents. Few modern mages mastered the art of reading the mind or the soul, not nearly enough to penetrate past the defenses of those surviving elvhen. They’d not made an art of it the way Dirthamen had. For the Melanada Vunin and the Brotherhood of Ravens, reading the minds of others came naturally as studying another’s reflection. They acquired information, and passed it on to Falon’din’s paladins and peacekeepers. It was not a stretch to imagine they’d do the same again, and this time his agents would have far fewer protections to their mental machinations.

Still, he’d no desire to go to Dirthamen. No desire to request a meeting or negotiate a treaty. Whatever Dirthamen might want in return, Solas knew he was not prepared to give.

_ Eirwen… _ his traitorous mind suggested.

_ He may take her for a lover, _ Mythal had said.

_ You say it so casually, _ he thought, and fought down another surge of bitterness. Found himself drowning loneliness gnawed away at his innards. “I must think on it,” he said at last.

“You’ve a few days, perhaps,” Mythal replied. “No longer. That girl might break free at any moment. Once she acclimates their position will be stronger than yours. Dirthamen might be counted on to keep to the shadows and build slowly, but your Inquisitor is fond of direct action.”

Solas sighed. Eirwen took far less time to plot than others he’d known, and remained clever under pressure. She might dissemble his position of weakness and strike.

“Long have the Dalish have waited to swing a hammer into the kingdoms of this world,” Mythal continued. “You will be unable to stop her.”

“However, it may be possible to direct her somewhere convenient,” Solas said. He glanced at Cole and saw the boy’s disappointment. His heart twinged with sympathy. “The shemlen may fall quickly, but she will be stalled as she attempts to take complete control. Chaos created for us is chaos she must deal with.” It was better, he knew, to leave her a corner to focus on while he did his work elsewhere. “It will take time.”

“Without rules, such a plan will be worthless,” Mythal replied. “We did not create a concord between the Evanuris because we believed the agreement would be followed. The rules governed the actions of those who agreed, became a point on which they might focus. Elgar’nan and I knew how they might act in accord as they attempted to subvert the restrictions placed on them and the effort they might make to break them. It is only natural for the young to rise, Dread Wolf. There will always be those who follow and those that attempt to tear their elders down.” 

Solas paused, then he sighed. Peace treaties never truly meant peace. Drawn up only so co-existence might be possible until they were undermined. No country, no continent, no people, were exempt. The world always changed, the memory and the names with it. He thought he knew Eirwen well, but he had been wrong. “Very well, I will go.” He glanced at Mythal. “I suppose I cannot expect your aid.”

She laughed. “What aid might an old woman give? This battle is for the young, Dread Wolf.”

Solas sighed, hating the way his confidence collapsed. He might face Dirthamen bravely knowing Mythal stood with him, but alone — when he’d only Tan and the others — required a different sort of bravery.

Mythal smile, her human eyes crinkling with warmth. “Never fear, Dread Wolf. I shall watch over you as I always have. You will find Dirthamen and the Inquisitor in the mountains above the Samahl Valley.” Her image flickered on the eluvian’s surface and she was gone.

Again, Solas found himself staring emptily at his reflection.  _ It seems no goodbyes, no matter their number shall ever satisfy the strings of destiny plucking my fate. _ Tangled together, he and Eirwen were made slaves by fate or destiny, or their own choices. No matter his attempts, no matter how far he went, or how firmly he tried he forget, Eirwen’s shadow dogged him. Brought into his sphere by his volition, through her actions, and the demands of others. If he must always return, why had he ever left? His jaw clenched.  _ As always, I doom myself. _

“You needn’t fear him, Solas,” Cole murmured.

“It is not him, Cole,” he replied.

Cole sighed. “You don’t need to fear her, either.”

Solas paused. “Again, I do not. Not entirely. I am frightened of what I feel and what it means.”

“You love her,” Cole said. “And she loves you.”

“Do we?” he asked. “Or did we create pleasing fantasies out of comfort, and now seek these ghosts in the shells of ourselves.” His eyes fell back to his hands, the memory of blood dripping from his fingers. “I’d begun to question where my Eirwen went, I wondered if the woman I loved existed at all, and now I...”

“But when you see the real her, you’ll love her more.”

“Yes,” he sighed, “that is what I am truly afraid of, Cole.”

Cole’s voice lowered, barely more than a melancholy whisper. “You shouldn’t be, Solas.”

“How can I not?” Solas asked. “After all I’ve done, all I believed, and all I said! How can I not fear the future? Now, Dirthamen has his hooks in her, another circles us in the shadows, and I am not fool enough to believe her a passive actor. Tricked into giving up all she is, perhaps, but she makes choices of her own. When I chose to walk the din’anshiral, Cole, I never thought… I...” his hand clenched. “How could I not realize how much I changed?”

“You didn’t know,” Cole said. “You wanted to fix the world, to save it as you did before.”

“That is no excuse,” he said.

“You wish for a world where she’d be happy, Solas.”

“That is the problem, Cole.”

“ _ She _ fights a world where the old wrongs are righted. Where the helpless are helped. Where everyone may be free,” Cole said. “She wishes for a world where everyone can have a chance at being who they are. A world where you’d be happy.”

Solas sighed. “I cannot accept that, not when it costs her everything she is.”

“If you helped her, she wouldn’t have to,” Cole said. “The ravens know. You should ask them.”

He closed his eyes. “I cannot, Cole.”

“You are awake now, Solas,” Cole said softly. “You could if you wanted to.”

“I cannot,” he repeated, his words hollow in his ears.

Solas turned to study the eluvian and his own reflection within it.  _ I cannot escape a meeting with Dirthamen. I should not try. _ Yet, Dirthamen was with Eirwen. If he went, he would see whatever alliance they’d created. His heart ached. What if she proved happier with him? What then? He drove his emotions away. Mythal was correct, a concord must be created. His feelings and desires had nothing to do with it. His goals required Eirwen’s attention turned from Tevinter, Fereldan and Orlais might prove acceptable alternatives. He looked at himself, and saw the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf was driven by reason, belief, and duty, not by his base desires. 

“You’ll never stop wishing for the world where she is happy.”

Yes, he thought, but the Dread Wolf was a wolf without a pack. The wolf who hunted alone through the dark forests of Arlathan. The path he’d chosen to walk when he’d abandoned his brethren. A lone wolf, doomed without the safety of the pack. “I will go to the Samahl Valley.”

 

***

 

Eirwen woke in the woods underneath a green sky. The white haired, golden eyed elf and her stone room were gone. The earth was warm beneath her hands, fingers drifting over dewy grass. She blinked, her eyes caught by the blackish-yellow orb of the sun overhead. It glittered high above her, half-hidden by the sweeping branches of unfamiliar trees. 

She wondered if she was alone, or if more pain was coming.

“You’re awake,” a soft, male voice murmured.

She recognized it, Eirwen thought. She knew the voice, knew the name. A friend from the past, one she’d almost forgotten. The grass rustled and a familiar face hovered before her, dressed in hunter’s leathers. A long lean body, narrow face with short, inky black bangs sweeping across brow, and a long nose just like she remembered. A face marked by the vallaslin of Falon’din.

“Suledin,” she whispered.

He cupped her cheek gently with his callused hand, a smile on his lips. Light glittered in his golden-brown eyes. “Aneth ara, lethallan.” 

Eirwen’s heartbeat quickened. “Aneth ara.”

He ruffled her hair. “It has been quite some time.”

Suledin Lavellan, Keeper Istaemathoriel’s son. They weren’t far apart in age. He’d been a brother, a mentor, a friend, and one of Clan Lavellan’s best hunters. Once when she was younger, she’d imagined they’d grow into a relationship that couldn’t be. Still, she hadn’t thought of him in years. Not after he left the Clan for his marriage to the Virlath’s First. Suledin, who stole her first kiss at the Arlathvhen. This Suledin wasn’t exactly as she remembered him, she’d only just turned sixteen when he left. He looked, she supposed, like she imagined he would. “You… Suledin, what are you doing here?”

His head tilted, and he looked up at the green sky overhead. “That is a good question.” Then, he smiled. “I suppose I’m where I’ve always been.”

Rolling her eyes, Eirwen studied the grass. “Where are we? Nothing around here looks familiar. Is this Arlathan?”

“Mmm,” he rubbed his mouth. “Doubtful.” He grinned. “What would I know of Arlathan?”

Slowly, she sat up. Her hands rested on her knees, her eyes closed. She couldn’t shake the queasy feeling in her stomach. Memories crowded together in her head, felt like they were fighting for… something. She didn’t know what, she slumped. “Istaemathoriel drilled it all into you.”

He steadied her gently, and let her lean against his arm. “You were a better student than I was, remember?”

“Mmm,” she mumbled. “I guess so. You always teased me about it. Are you trapped here too?”

He chuckled. “No.”

“Right,” she mumbled. “This is my imagination. You’re married, and in Nevarra. Why am I seeing you?”

“Maybe because you wanted to marry me once,” he teased. “Remember when I caught you sneaking out of camp to go down to the shemlen towns? You told me only your future husband would ever get to tell you what to do.”

“And you said you were my future husband, so I’d better get back to bed before you woke the Keeper,” she replied.

He laughed. “Your jaw dropped fast as it did when Dirthara dunked you in the lake.”

“I was a child!”

“A cute one,” he said, ruffling her hair.

There was no point in getting upset with a figment of her imagination. “You’re not here because I want to marry you,” she said. “I don’t even know where here is.”

“Hmm,” he said, then arm slung about her shoulders and his cheek rested on the top of her head. “Let’s think. Green sky and a blackish-yellow sun, I suppose that’s too terrifying to be Arlathan.”

“Green sky is the Fade,” she replied. “The Beyond, the Abyss, and our world used to be one before the Dread Wolf separated them. It’d make sense if we were seeing the past.”

“True,” he said. “You were always a sharp one, White Snow.”

_ White Snow. _ “That’s what the other… elf called me.”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” she said. “It just feels strange.”

He chuckled. “I guess so, lethallan.”

_ Suledin... _ Out of everyone she might pick or envision, why had she chosen him? The white haired elf tested her. Maybe he was some sort of test too. Her eyes opened. She took in the bluish-tint to the grass and her bare feet. “We can’t stay here.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder.

She glanced up at him, into his serious brown-gold eyes. There was a light in them she’d never seen before. “Suledin?”

“Eirwen,” his knuckle brushed her cheek, “wait.”

“Why?” she asked. “You said you weren’t trapped.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“But you’re here.”

He tapped her nose. “Only so long as you are.”

“Then why do I need to wait?”

“You won’t like what lies ahead,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t know where we were, lethallin.”

His eyes softened.

She caught his hand. “If the only way out is there, then that’s direction I need to go. I can’t stay here.”

“I know,” he said. “You must see with your own eyes.”

Eirwen looked up at him and gently lay her hands on both his cheeks. She leaned forward, and rested her forehead against his. “Walk with me on the lonely path?”

Warmly, his hands covered hers. “For you, I will walk through the fires and shadows of this world.”

She smiled. “Then, there’s no reason to hesitate.”

He sighed. “I thought I taught you only fools rush ahead. Caution and careful planning are the paths that lead to success.”

“If I didn’t rush ahead you’d never drag me back to camp, lethallin,” Eirwen said.

Suledin groaned. “If I didn’t drag you back to camp some Templar shemlen would’ve made off with you.”

“Pfft,” she giggled. “Too bad you weren’t there when they tried.”

His left thumb moved to her scar, and traced slowly down it. His eyes hardened.

“I need to figure out how to beat this test,” Eirwen continued. “Maybe we’ll see each other again in the real world, at the next Arlathvhen.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

With his wife and whatever children she’d born him, Eirwen thought. She might be there with Dirthamen, Harel and Harel, or someone else. Not with Solas, but someone. They were family, but their time together in Clan Lavellan felt like a lifetime ago. She’d been a different person then, before Corypheus, the Inquisition, Solas, and the orb. Before Mythal, before she’d woken Dirthamen, before she made her agreement with Command, before she organized slave rebellions in Tevinter. That different Eirwen, the innocence girl she missed.

She let Suledin go, pushed away from him, and stood. The cold rays of the sun overhead beat down on her shoulders. Straightening, she faced the woods. Her eyes finding the dark path hidden beneath the shadows cast by the wide, crooked branches of an ancient tree. That was the one she needed to take.

Eirwen’s eyes returned to Suledin, where he still sat on the grass. “I can’t go back to who I was.”

“No,” he agreed. “Yet, it is unnecessary to lose all you were.”

“I want to help the People, but I also want to be myself. I can’t fight a war I don’t believe in.”

“Yours has always been the heart of a conqueror, White Snow,” Suledin said. “Conquerors envision a world they wish to build, and fight to see those dreams realized. They are builder and destroyer both. They take by force what the world will not give them.”

She closed her eyes. “I suppose at the heart of it all, I am selfish. I want to see my vision free from the restrictions and structures imposed by the ones in power. I’ve always been someone’s tool, the Dalish, the Inquisition, Solas, Mythal, and maybe Dirthamen. I’m tired of it.”

“You want power,” he said.

Eirwen sighed. “I want to set myself free. I want to know my potential. I want to know myself. The question I need answered is, how far I can go? Not just in this life, but every life. I  _ want _ —”

His finger pressed to her lips.

She met his eyes.

“You want what nothing in this world can provide you,” Suledin said. “You thirst, but no drink satisfies. You desire, but no love fulfills. You seek, but no adventure is enough. You hunger for the purpose within you. A purpose you cannot name, beyond what you are given; beyond what your eyes see and your body knows. Your lips say you wish to serve, but your heart longs to rule. That is the truth in you.”

She pushed his hand away. “I’m tired of falling.”

He grinned. “Then, you must fly.”

“It’s not that easy,” Eirwen whispered. “What if I let out what I’m holding inside me and lose everything? What if I break the world rather than save it?”

Gently, he held her head. “You must ask if the powers that hold the world in their palm have value, if the structures they created still serve their purpose. If your dreams are worth the risk of what will be lost.”

She sighed. “You sound like Dirthamen.”

He laughed. “Isn’t it the other way around? Your new friend sounds like me?”

Her eyes narrowed. He was Suledin, she was sure of it. Yet…  _ so strange. _ Reaching out, she touched his cheek. “Who are you?”

“Who I’ve always been.”

Eirwen sighed. “That’s not much of an answer. I’ve always been here. Who I’ve always been.” Maybe he was part of the test.  _ Idiot, of course he is. _ Why hadn’t she considered that? Why had she let her guard down? After all, why wouldn’t this place assume the form of an old friend to test her?  _ I can’t figure out the answers if I don’t know what the test is.  _ Dirthamen hadn’t explained. She couldn’t contort herself into something she wasn’t.  _ I almost wish the white haired elf would come back and torture me again. _

“Eirwen,” he said. “You passed the test.”

“I did not,” she replied, wondering if he was reading her mind. “There’d be more signs. I’d wake up.”

He smiled, pushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “What lies ahead will hurt you.”

“The test?”

“The truth.”

She swallowed. “The truth about Arlathan.”

“Within this elgar’arla exists the collective will of the People and their knowledge,” he said. “It was stolen not long before Arlathan fell, our final weapon lost.”

“Stolen…” she tried to remember what Dirthamen had told her.

“Ahead lies the world that once was, before the war,” Suledin said. “A world that might yet come again. Its knowledge yours, the power yours.”

“If I pass the test,” she finished.

He smiled. “Perhaps.”

Eirwen sighed. “I guess I walk on then.”

He held out a hand, directing her toward the shadowed path under the crooked branches. “The world waits.”

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes, she really hated her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys thought I was just going to leave you on that cliffhanger, huh? Just kidding!
> 
> Thanks everyone who is still reading this story, I appreciate it and your comments. You're the best!


	29. Chapter 29

Sumeil Virlath found Suledin Lavellan on the top of the hill. Standing at the cliff’s edge with a raven on his shoulder. His unstrung bow across his back, a bloody spear in hand. Behind him, the corpses of six wolves in a semi-circle. Overhead, the slivers of golden rays broke through the clouds above the Nevarran ziggurat in the valley below.

“Suledin,” Sumeil called.

His head tilted slightly, a sign he’d heard her.

She started forward, ignoring the blood scattered across the grass. If she hadn’t known better, she might’ve thought the corpses were for some ritual. Despite his lack of magical talent, he was a Keeper’s son. “We’ve finished the hunt.”

“Then return to the Clan.”

Sumeil swallowed, his cool voice sent shivers up her spine. “Aena is worried about you, lethallin. She says you haven’t been yourself.”

Suledin glanced over his shoulder, light golden-brown eyes meeting hers. His head lifted, and black bangs swept across his forehead. Irises glinting in the late morning light, he set his spear on his shoulder. Blood dripped off the tip, some rolling down the shaft as the rest soaked into the soil. The raven who’d become his constant companion six months past shifted on his shoulder, studying her with elven-like intelligence. His lips curled into a smile. “Are you asking for Aena’s sake or your own, lethallan?”

Hand clenching, Sumeil looked away. Aena was her sister, a craftswoman and his former wife. True, she’d made advances after Suledin and Aena ended their relationship. He’d rebuffed her firmly then, but kindly. These days, she’d no idea what to do with his casual cruelty.

Suledin spun smoothly on his heel, gaze surveying his handiwork. “Call those hunters not engaged with boar, have them handle these,” he gestured to the wolves. “The meat will last us a few months and the pelts should provide an excellent gift to Ghilain’s Keeper when she arrives.”

Sumeil frowned. His behavior suggested he’d no plans to skin them himself. “Where will you be?”

He glanced away, his eyes falling to the city in the valley below. “I’ve some business to settle.”

“With the shemlen?” she asked, hoping to press him for more.

Suledin smiled. “Something of the sort.”

“It won’t—”

“No,” he cut her off.

“I’ll inform the Keeper then,” Sumeil said, her eyes falling. “Hopefully, the coming summit will resolve these dreams of Mythal.”

He crossed the grass. “They’re temptations sent by the Dread Wolf, meant to lure the People from their course.” Laying a hand on her shoulder, he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Stand firm, lethallan.”

She swallowed again, wishing he was always this comforting. When he did, his confidence inspired her. His certainty never wavered. Under his leadership, their hunters handled everything from bandits to raging spirits. Once, she’d been afraid of what the shemlen armies might bring. Now, she’d follow him anywhere. “I… I will, Suledin.”

He strode on and, a moment later, disappeared among the trees.

Sumeil closed her eyes. Despite his calm, concern bubbled at the edges of her mind. There was reason to be concerned, she thought. The calm, charismatic, and friendly Suledin Lavellan vanished five years past. The one who’d joined their clan, took his marriage vows beneath the branches of the vhenadahl. He’d changed when the sky opened, when the maddened spirits began crawling across the land. When the dead broke free from their tombs and the Nevarra’s necropolises transformed to a den of screaming spirits. He’d grown morose, serious, and distant. Prone to bouts of melancholy. Days when he abandoned his position of leadership among the hunters and simply disappeared. On those nights, he rode out with his halla, a raven on his shoulder. He traveled with spear in hand, and bow strung across his back. Wandered the forests alone. With the demons and restless spirits roaming free from their ancient resting places, none dared follow.

She knew she should not be frustrated with him. Suledin aided the Clan on his journeys. Braving the most dangerous tombs to return with the knowledge of their ancestors, and the Creator Falon’din. He’d given their Clan it’s greatest gift — Falon’din’s ancient spells for soothing the dead, creating safe wards, and sending spirits back to the Beyond. The Clan wouldn’t have survived without him. He guided the hunters through dangerous woods, led them through disaster after disaster, and under his hand they all learned to fend off spirits regardless of talent.

Still, she didn’t know how to describe him now. A strange light filled his eyes at odd moments, his mouth curling into odd smiles only for himself. His eyes turned to distant horizons, ranging ever closer to Nevarra’s great cities and the outposts where Inquisition troops were stationed. He hungered, always for news of the traitor Eirwen Lavellan. More often than not, he left her unsettled these days. Sumeil wished she knew why.

“Arlas,” she called.

A second later, Arlas emerged from the woods with his black hound padding at his heels. Shorter than the average elf, he had sandy blonde hair, a childishly round face, and baby blue eyes. He hardly cut an imposing figure. He stifled a yawn with his hand. “Suledin took off again, huh?”

She sighed. “Keeper will ask and I’ve no idea where.”

Arlas sauntered to her side, taking in the dead wolves with an appraising eye. “We could call the others, then tail him.”

“He’d catch us,” Sumeil replied.

“True.” Arlas rubbed the back of his head. “He’s a sixth sense for shadows, but maybe we’d stop whatever he’s planning.”

Sumeil glanced at him. “Planning?”

“Yeah,” Arlas said. “I don’t know what happened, but he’s furious. Has been for a while. Kept the kills to wolves, mostly. A few flat ears here and there from the cities peddling the Dread Wolf nonsense. He wrecked those bandits last month.”

She blinked, that didn’t sound right. Her eyes fell back to the wolves. Maybe Arlas was onto something. Why else would he hunt an entire pack alone? _Strange, Aena never mentioned it._ “I suppose so.”

“He’s headed down to the city too,” Arlas said. “That’s trouble.”

She frowned. “You think he’s going to kill a shemlen?”

Arlas rubbed his mouth. “Honestly?” His eyes returned to the dead wolves. “I’d say he’s about to murder a whole bunch.”

Her heart froze. Dead shemlen meant trouble for the whole clan. “Who?”

“Dunno, Sumeil,” he said. “He just had that look in his eyes.”

Sumeil shook her head. “I didn’t see anything.”

_"You_ wouldn’t,” Arlas told her. “He’s like this when someone he cares about gets hurt. I was with him on that hunting trip two years back in the Silent Plains. You remember, when the Inquisitor lost her arm and those rumors about the Dread Wolf started. He had the same expression then.”

“What happened?”

Arlas sighed. “He massacred a few Qunari expeditions we came across, and killed lots of Vints.”

Sumel’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “Are you telling me he risked our hunters on some sort of vendetta?”

“Nah, we were done anyway. He sent the rest of us back, and did it alone,” Arlas said. “I convinced him to let me stay, just in case. I spent three weeks watching him murder the Vints and Qunari in those plains. Never seen anything like it.” He shrugged. “I figured he needed to work out whatever he was feeling.”

“Did he say?” Sumeil asked.

“Didn’t want to talk about it,” Arlas said, thumbing his nose. “Sometimes, we men are like that.”

Sumeil rolled her eyes. “You’re so tough, lethallin.”

Arlas laughed. “You should’ve seen me in action!”

She swatted his arm, glancing in the direction Suledin disappeared. “You don’t suppose…”

“Only if we watch,” Arlas said. “No participation.”

She sighed. “I just don’t understand, Arlas.”

“He can’t be where he wants,” Arlas replied. “Those he cares about are in danger, and he’s stuck here. I was like him when I lived in the cities, always repressed and pent up. Never really free to express myself around the shems.”

“He’s Dalish,” Sumeil said.

“He’s Lavellan,” Arlas countered. “His Clan almost got wiped out by those Marcher lords, remember? And he stuck with us. Supposedly, he was like a brother to that Inquisitor. Got to be hard, sticking to duty when your friends are in the thick of it.”

She frowned. “We were too.”

“Not like them,” Arlas said. “Or, her, really. How’d you feel if Aena was out fighting those mad spirits every day with nobody but Chantry shems, a dwarf, a qunari, a Vint, and a couple of flat ears watching her back?”

“Virlath wouldn’t be dumb enough to send one of our own to begin with,” Sumeil snapped.

“Yeah, but if we were,” Arlas nudged her, “you’d be there, right?”

“Of course,” Sumeil said.

“Suledin didn’t go,” Arlas said. “You’ve heard the stories. For us, she was just some Dalish First that abandoned the Clans but she’s… he grew up with her.”

Sumeil rubbed the back of her head. “I guess.”

Arlas grabbed her shoulder. “Let him work through it, Sumeil.”

“What if it comes back on the Clan?” Sumeil asked.

“Hasn’t so far,” Arlas said. “C’mon,” he waved to the wolf caracasses, “let’s deal with this.”

She sighed and nodded. Together, they walked to the wolves. Arlas probably was right, she decided as she knelt next to the first wolf. There’d never been a reason to worry before. There probably wasn’t now. Still, his behavior troubled her. _He’s never been like this, not even when Aena got hurt._ Theirs was an arranged marriage, obviously, but for four years they’d seemed content. _I know I don’t mean much to him, but Aena…_ she sighed. It didn’t matter whether she came at him up or down, Suledin never made sense.

 

***

 

Silently, Eirwen followed Suledin through the dark forest. Her fingers itched at her side, he was so… she swallowed, staring at the back of his head. _So Suledin_. Glossy black hair glinting with a green sheen from the fading sunlight slipping through oversized leaves. Every so often, she thought she heard a rumble or the ground shake as some massive animal moved through the forest. They walked silently, one after the other. Silently as the Dalish hunters did when they traveled, without the noise and relentless chatter she’d grown accustomed to with her friends in the Inquisition. _Silently like the People do,_ she thought. Like the People… her fingers brushed bare cheeks, a face without vallaslin. She wondered if she was still Dalish. She’d been away from Clan Lavellan for so long.

_She is bare faced and embarrassed,_ Cole had said. _She thinks that’s why you turned away._

_I am, Cole,_ she thought, _but not because of Solas._ Her eyes moved to Suledin, then dropped to the thick grass and dense shadows beyond the path. _I’m ashamed of myself._ By staying away from the Dalish, she could afford to not think about it. When faced with one of her own, tears stung her lashes. Even if Suledin wasn’t real, even if he wasn’t really here, the shame still knotted in her gut. _I don’t want them to see me like this._ Bare faced, white haired, and missing an arm, or face the inevitable ‘I told you so’. They wouldn’t say it that way, but… “Suledin.”

“Hmm?”

Her knuckles swept up her face, she felt out her cheeks and nose then moved up to her forehead, and into her hair. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

He paused, and glanced over his shoulder. “Ashamed?” One black eyebrow rose. “Ashamed of what, lethallan?”

Feeling small and cold, lost and lonely, she studied the dirt beneath her feet. “Of me.” She rubbed her cheek. “Of my face.”

For a moment, he was quiet.

Her eyes lifted, and she saw an odd expression on his face. “Suledin?”

A small smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “The sunlight is fading. We ought to find a place and rest for the night.”

Eirwen looked up at the sky, it did seem darker. Maybe, the whole place was pretty dark. She tucked a few strands of white hair behind an ear. “I don’t think our rules apply here.”

“Maybe,” Suledin agreed. “I, however, am tired.”

She took a few steps forward, her eyes narrowed. “You’re not. We only began walking a few hours ago.”

“Very well,” Suledin said. “I’m not.”

Nodding, Eirwen took a step forward. “See, we should just keep—”

“Explain why I should be ashamed of you, lethallan.”

She blanched.

He crossed his arms, his gaze level. “Do you wish to have the conversation here or somewhere warm, away from the beasts in the woods, and with a fire?”

Eirwen tossed her head, and looked away. “I think we should keep walking.” Her eyes searched the forest. “Onward... to whatever’s waiting… out there.”

“Nae, lethallan,” Suledin said. “I’m afraid you won’t escape so easily.”

“You’re a figment of my imagination,” she told him. “You have to do what I say.”

He closed the distance between them, and leaned forward. “Pretend,” he murmured. “For a moment, pretend I’m here.”

“I am,” Eirwen said, looking away. “I wouldn’t want to tell you, even if you were.”

His hand settled on her head with a soft thump. “I’m not ashamed of you, Eirwen.”

She remembered the moment in the glade, in the moonlight. Walking quietly, arm in arm, as the fog lifted off the lake. The grass soft beneath her feet. The warm smile on Solas’ lips. _You are so beautiful,_ he’d said. _You deserve better than what those cruel marks represent._

Her hand clenched. “You told me to never let another decide who I should be.”

“I did,” he nodded, “when you kept running from Iseth’s lessons. You were frightened she’d turn you into someone else.”

“Yes,” she said. “I was, I… I think I did.”

His hand touched her cheek. “Your vallaslin?”

She nodded. They were her marks of adulthood. A sign of the pain she endured, what the Dalish endured in receiving them. They’d been a source of pride once. “My marks, they weren’t taken from me. I agreed to this.”

Suledin sighed. “Let’s find somewhere to rest, Eirwen.”

Grabbing his hand, she looked up into his eyes. In this light, they seemed more gold than brown. “Why aren’t you upset with me?” This time, she couldn’t stop the tears. “I left, Suledin. I left just like... like my mother did. I went to the Conclave on the Keeper’s orders, but I stayed for myself. I fought and defeated Corypheus, and again I failed to return home. I kept focusing on my goals; maybe I was running too. It’s been five years and I… I haven’t even thought of going back. Now, I’m here in this place and if I leave I may never be me again. I’ll never see them as myself again because I was ashamed.” She swallowed. “Ashamed of what they’d think. I should’ve done better.”

His arms slid around her, and he pulled her into a hug. “I know you, lethallan. You ran away often, but never shied from responsibility when those in your care needed you.”

She rested her cheek on his leather-clad chest. “I… how can I still be one of the People, lethallin?”

“You will always be of the People,” he said, stroking her hair, “regardless where you walk in this world. A child of ravens, beloved by Falon’din.”

“The Creators might be monsters,” she whispered. “What good is it to be loved by them?”

His chin rested on her head. “Is that what the Dread Wolf told you?”

“Not just Solas,” Eirwen said. “Mythal too, and Dirthamen… I don’t know what to make of him. I’m so out of my depth. I was with Corypheus too, even when it came to the anchor. I barely understood then. I tried so hard to learn what I needed, but all I could do in the end was plow ahead. Hope for the best.”

“And now, lethallan?”

She sighed. “I’ve killed so many, Suledin. Maybe I’m destined to be a monster too.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Power corrupts easily, the first taste may never be enough.”

She closed her eyes. All the lives she’d taken, all those she would take, and all those lost, they settled on her shoulders. Hung like iron bars around her neck, a steel collar weighing her down. The higher she climbed, the more trapped she became. Her hands scrabbling on a cliff face in the dark, blindly following a path whose destination she couldn’t see. “How many sacrifices can we make before we stop being who we are? How much do I give up before what’s me is gone?”

Suledin stroked her hair, gently tucking a few strands behind her ear. His hands were gentle, and for a brief moment he reminded her more of Dirthamen than the distant, untouchable Suledin of memory. The Suledin who was always surrounded by admirers. Suledin, the one expected to take his place as a leader in the Clan.

“Suledin?”

“Life is sacrifice, da’elgara,” he said. “You are the sun. The Wolf, no matter how banefully he might howl, may only chase you across the sky.”

She smiled, cheek pulling against his chest. “So, my destiny is reign on high, forever out of reach? I’m not sure I like that, lethallin.”

He chuckled. “One can be of the People and above them.”

“That’s a contradiction,” Eirwen said.

He shook his head. “That is leadership.”

Eirwen sighed, and pushed him away. “When did you get so wise?”

Resting his hand on her forehead, he gave her a light shove. “If we forget where we’ve been, we cannot know where we are headed.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re quoting the Keeper now.”

“You respect Mother’s wisdom,” he said, ruffling her hair. “I thought you might listen to it.”

Eirwen looked away. Stepping past him, she continued walking down the dark road. Her heart thudded against her ribs, and she wasn’t sure if she agreed with what he said. Or, if she believed him. He was trying to comfort her, the way she imagined he might when they grew up. _Sometimes,_ she thought, _it’s so foolish to hope._ Yet, she couldn’t give up her hopes. She glanced over her shoulder. “That would be our issue, Suledin. The People don’t know where we’ve been.” Her eyes rose to the stars overhead. “I’ve chased the Dread Wolf through working eluvians, walked through what remains of our ancient libraries in the Fade, and been decried by our ancestors as a member of a lost people. Unworthy, just like all the other shems. I met the first Inquisitor, a Dalish elf whose origin was obscured by the Chantry.” There in the sky overhead, she saw distant golden lights not unlike stars. “How could I return knowing the Creators reject us? When so much of our history is a lie?”

“What we lived is not,” he said.

Her eyes dropped to him.

Suledin stood there in the dim, green light, sheen glittering off his hair and pale skin. His eyes a pure, liquid gold. For a moment, he wasn’t in the Dalish leathers but dressed in black armor and silver armor distantly reminiscent of Solas’ and the Sentinels. A black cloak swept off his shoulders, capturing the colors as they shimmered around him. A spear of pure silver and gold starlight in hand.

She sucked in a breath. “Suledin…”

Then, the image vanished and he was again the one she remembered. “Why should the opinions of those who hid themselves from this world matter? They do not define you,” he said. “They do not define the People. The ancients are but a fraction of our history. Whatever wonders they may have built. we are no less than they.” He strode forward, and took hold of her shoulders. “In the end, it was we who stood firm. We endured the fires, the horrors, and the shadows of this world. We survived.”

Eirwen swallowed.

He squeezed her shoulders. “You are of Clan Lavellan. It was Eirwen Lavellan who led the Inquisition. Eirwen Lavellan who defeated Corypheus and sealed the tear in the Beyond. Eirwen Lavellan, not the Dread Wolf. You are the White Snow, and it was the Dalish not the elvhen of old who taught you to walk tall.”

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Suledin smiled. “Who I’ve always been.”

Eirwen lay her hand on his face, found his skin warm under her palm. Searching his eyes, she couldn’t find the lie. She sighed, there were so many questions. So much more to him, than what he let on. He couldn’t be real. A figment of her imagination, a companion in the elgar’arla. Here, perhaps, to keep her sane.

_‘Who I’ve always been’ isn’t an answer,_ she thought. Withdrawing her hand, she sighed. “If what’s ahead will be as damaging as you say, maybe we should rest.”

He laughed. “If that is the entire story, we should be off.”

“It isn’t,” Eirwen said. “I haven’t told you about my time in the Inquisition or the whole story about Solas.”

“Solas?” he turned the word over on his tongue. The way he spoke Solas’ name sounded more like a curse than a question.

“About Fen’Harel.” Her toes scuffed the dirt, and she felt a bit like a naughty child. “About my relationship with him.”

“Relationship.” His brows rose. “Your working relationship, you worked with him.”

“Ro...man...tic,” she stressed each syllable. “We were close. I mean, we were together. Together in a romantic sense. I had a romance. My first, honestly.”

Suledin stared at her, his jaw tensed. She wondered at the thoughts running through his mind, though the way his hand fell to the dirk sheathed on his hip wasn’t a comforting sign. Or the white knuckled grip. His eyes narrowed, then brown-gold irises flicked sideways.

“We’re both too old for you to defend my honor,” Eirwen said.

“Never,” he replied, his voice cool. “You are never too old for that, da’elgara. Is he the reason behind your missing arm?”

Sighing, she pushed her hand through her hair. “You can’t kill him, Suledin.”

“Oh?” he tilted his head, his expression somehow both simultaneously comforting and alien. “We will see.”

Eirwen glared at him. “Suledin!”

He strode forward, his hands landing on her shoulders. Forcefully, he spun her about and began pushing her forward through the woods. “We’re finding somewhere to put down, then you tell me the rest.”

“I think that’s going a little far,” she said. “What about the test? I need to get back to the real world.”

“The purpose of the elgar’arla is to ensure you are at the height of mental fitness and a match to the will of the spirits within the orb,” he replied so smoothly she almost jumped. “How are they to know without your history? Come.”

“Will you admit to being a figment of my imagination now?” she asked, letting him push her forward.

“No.”

Eirwen sighed, exasperated. “Then are you trapped here?”

“No,” he said.

_I’m going to scream,_ she thought. _I’m just going to do it. Then, I’ll set him on fire. If I ever see him in the real world, I’m setting him on fire again._ A horrible abuse of power maybe, but she didn’t plan on killing him. _I’ll just singe him a little._ “Will you just be honest about what’s going on?”

“Nope,” he replied cheerfully.

Her mouth set in a mulish line. “I hate you.”

“Admit it, da’elgara,” he murmured in her ear, “this is the most fun you’ve had in some time.”

She glared at him over her shoulder, even as she let him prod her along. “This isn’t fun at all. I’m stuck here with no idea what I’m doing. I was trying to be serious, do this the right way. Now, you want my life story.”

“It has been nearly ten years,” Suledin said.

She sighed. “I just can’t figure out if you’re real or fake.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Think on it.”

His chest was warm, and his hands were strong. Eirwen felt a little guilty over her happiness at being this close to him again, especially when she thought of Dirthamen. Dirthamen was waiting for her to crack free from this shell. _If sharing my life experiences helps get through this, then that’s what I’ll do._ No matter how uncomfortable it probably would be. “Where did,” her voice dropped low, “ _what happens next will hurt you_ go?”

“Pain is coming,” he replied. “Anecdotes, however, are first.”

She groaned. “You’re so irritating, Suledin.”

He grinned. “I know, lethallan. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvish translations:**
> 
> _da'elgara_ \- Little Sun.
> 
> So, I managed to crank out an update. No Solas or Dirthamen this chapter. Suledin kicked the door in, and it gave me a chance to explore Eirwen with a family member. 
> 
> Also, poor Solas. Suledin is absolutely serious about killing you in a blood fued, my bro.


	30. Chapter 30

Dirthamen did not go far from the cabin where Eirwen slept. He located a small cliff overlooking the pass, the only trail up leading up from the Samahl Valley, and the massive vhenadahl village below. He wrapped his cloak around him, and raised his internal temperatures to battle the cold. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a small stone table and two black chairs. Next, a board and small game pieces inlaid with silver and gold, carved from Arlathan heartwood. They belonged to the war game, Elvhenaris. An ancient precursor, perhaps, for the Thedosian game chess.

He took a seat, and began arranging the pieces. The Fen’Harel Dirthamen remembered preferred to walk, and traveled exclusively by eluvian. He meandered to the nearest mirror, walked through it to another mirror and so on. The closest eluvian to Eirwen was the one set under guard within the great vhenadahl in the valley below. A few quick orders to those of the Brotherhood aiding the town, and the plan was in place. Fen’Harel would come. All Dirthamen need do was wait for the Dread Wolf to begin his journey up the mountain.

The pieces set, he leaned back in his chair. A chill wind howled through the valley, all bluster and rage at the eternal spring in the valley below. He ‘d never been one to be bothered by cold. He kicked one foot up on the table, and rested his head on the chair’s sloping back. One finger slipped through the opening in his collar, and traced the thin red lines of vallaslin. He smiled, eyes turning to the strange, blue sky overhead.

It was odd to look at, he thought. Blue instead of green, filled with white vapors condensed into loose droplets.The strange ecosystem of Thedas began with the way water transitioned from snow to rivers, lakes, and oceans then evaporated underneath the sun’s rays, rising to the sky before falling again as rain.

He missed the dark, golden dots of cities floating above his head. The distant mountain citadels, where one might look out on the land and see nothing but endless forests. When trees grew to the size of small mountains, prized by the dryads and forest spirits. He missed June’s forges, the giant bellows working day and night. A thousand elvhen and helpful spirits roaming from station to station, crafting weapons, tools, and armor. Shaping their tools as they grew from the earth, He missed the sight of June’s silver and gold elsulahn, vehicles of singing spirits whizzing over Ghilnan’nain’s halla herds. The laughing children holding both their parents’ hands as they stepped through eluvians, traveling from all across the world to the sprawling, tropical Adahlan Markets in the Sunset Isle. The island maps now designated as Seheron.

His thoughts fell to Eirwen, her wandering soul in Falon’din’s ancient elgar’arlas. Evanuris must take on the will of the past, to carry their will into the future. She had the capacity to succeed, he knew it. And yet, he wished she did not have to walk this path alone. His fingers moved to his vallaslin, magic humming across his skin. The direct, blood link between his spirit and hers. They wandered down the curling line on his neck, down toward his collarbone.

There was still time, he thought. Time for her to grow into her own. Time for the elves of this age to have their chance, and a leader of their own. Time to see what someone new would do in this new world. Time for him to avoid reflecting on the immediate past.

For now, at least, Falon’din felt far away.

With a sigh, Dirthamen pushed his fingers through his hair and returned his gaze to thin, winding, dirt road leading out of the mountains. He could not trouble himself with the madness of his twin when another brother lay ahead in the present. Fen’Harel would arrive soon.

 _Patience,_ he reminded himself. He’d yet to truly gain a lay of the land, wander the cities before they fell. Take in the strange new sights and smells, see if the humans were as poorly washed as he remembered. Identify which structural pieces of their settlements were integral to their continued function, and safeguard the knowledge centers. Should a civilization fall, the schools of thought ought to survive. Looking out over the Samahl Valley, he saw now the flaw in Elvhenan’s original designs. _Had our centers of learning been wholly in one world or the other, the damage would have been far less catastrophic._ He’d a few libraries squirreled away, untouched since the Fall. They’d all been linked once by his personal network, buried in the world’s now lost realms. Never in places of power suitable to attract other Evanuris, or to build strongholds as Fen’Harel had at Skyhold.

Harel should be meeting with the Melanada Vunin and their followers, he thought. Once he had their representatives, he would work with Renan to waken his warriors. Together, they would revive the Wild Hunt. The force Falon’din and he had once devised to spread fear to the peoples in the Dawn Lands. _It will work well enough as a strategy again._ A few glimpses into Renan’s mind suggested the human rulers of these lands were primed to fear magic. The laws of their Chantry, handed down through the centuries blamed the Blight on the magician’s desire for power. Those Magisters who pierced what remained of the golden city, of Arlathan and were forever tainted by it. Those Magisters who re-awakened the Void. These humans prepared Templars as the bulwark against Tevinter magisters, and never learned to deal with magic themselves.

 _Falon’din._ He closed his eyes. _Suledin._

There’d been a time when they were inseparable, indivisible. When they existed as mirrored reflections of a single entity. Born together from a spirit drawn forth by Mythal from the Beyond, Sulevin and Suledin. He was Purpose, and Suledin was Loss. The one who endured pain. He who sought to locate the lost part of himself. Suledin, the complicated. Suledin, the charismatic. Suledin, who found himself in the recognition of others. Suledin, who became Falon’din, the Friend of the Dead. Suledin, who could not be alone.

 _I am no good alone, but my skill lies in the gathering of information,_ he thought. _Suledin, he cannot be alone. He cannot exist without the adoration of others._ Trapped across the Veil, away from the love of the People, was a fate worse than death. _Fen’Harel cannot understand what it is to be separate from yourself._ All Evanuris existed as concept in duality, positive and negative, good and evil, spirit and demon. Mythal was Justice and Vengeance both, existing in harmony. Fen’Harel sought to be Wisdom, but ended as the positive and negative aspects of Pride. Sylaise took on Passion and Jealousy. Yet, he and Falon’din were split. Theirs a shared duality in Purpose and Loss. In this world, truly, there might be none better to know the elvhen and their pain than He Who Embodied Loss. Falon’din, God of War, Loss, and Grief.  _I betrayed my soul-brother in the end, and betrayed myself._

Dirthamen sighed. He pushed his fingers through his hair. Perhaps, he thought, that was what attracted him to Renan and the Dalish. Her struggle to know herself and find purpose in a word which stripped the People of both. Her fierce eyes and fiercer spirit, her desire to know. Dirthamen longed to provide the opportunity for her purpose to be fulfilled. Reunite her with her lost self, become whole as he might never be.

“There is no greater pain in this world than a purpose lost,” Dirthamen murmured, opening his eyes he looked up at the strange blue sky. “Perhaps that is why I feel for you, Shem’Harel. You stand so far from where you ought to be.” He smiled. “Pride never realizes when he is lost.” And why would he? Dirthamen wondered. Pride was stiff kneed, stiff necked, and stiff backed. It was not his nature to admit mistakes, nor change his mind. “Either the reed bends with the wind or it breaks. Without flexibility, there can be no survival. Those uncertain of their desire to die may yet fail to jump.”

 

***

 

Eirwen let Suledin push her until they came to a fork in the path, and followed when he took her to the left. Walked with him as he kept hold of her hand, until they reached a small, rocky outcropping. Suledin grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up. Her feet found footholds, her hand grasping the rocky surface, and she slowly began to climb. She didn’t need to climb far. A few moments later, she found herself kneeling on a smooth surface. The entire rock flattened into some sort of camping spot. Taking in shifting green, silver, blue, and black runes carved into the stone, she swallowed. They were similar to the elvhen ones hidden in ruins around Thedas. Runes she hadn’t understood then, but now almost did. The words, the meanings, and the spells all like a secret on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to speak their names, yet couldn’t quite remember how.

Behind her, Suledin landed lightly on the stone. She glanced over her shoulder. “What is this place?”

“A campground of sorts,” he replied. “The runes mark protect areas for travelers, and keep Ghilnan’nain’s beasts away.”

She traced her index finger down one, following the swirling pattern. Her finger cooled by the magical fires twining off the warm surface. Persistent magic woven into the stone itself, not inlaid with lyrium. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You may thank Falon’din,” he said.

Eirwen smiled. “How would you know?”

“An excellent question.” Suledin strode past her, kneeling by the central circle and its runes. Hands settling on his knees, he grinned. “How would I know?”

Gaze falling to her hands, she studied the calluses and bumps on her palm. The arm she projected lacked those defining features. Worn skin, the early signs of wrinkles, the bumps on her fingertips, all gone in her false hand. Was that what would happen to her when she emerged? Would her spirit smoothed be and cleared of imperfections? Or would the old calluses and scars remain? _I want certainty and strength, not indecision. I want to be me when this is over._ No other to decide which way was right. _I can’t make up the difference in experience, but I can learn._ Young and naive, perhaps, but with potential. Her fingers clenched into a fist.

“I don’t have a clue, Suledin,” Eirwen said. “I… I just wish I knew.”

“I see we’re not talking of me any longer,” Suledin said dryly.

She swallowed.

“Just as well,” he continued. “Knowing you as I do, da’elgara, you haven’t spent time contemplating what happened these past few years. You fill your life with projects and plans, rarely taking the time to reflect.”

Eirwen frowned. “I grew up, Suledin.”

“Mmhmm,” he nodded, his eyes appraising. “Yet the flaws of the child are those of the adult, you remain hasty and impulsive.”

She glared at him. “I am…” trailing off, she studied the stone beneath her. He was right, she thought. Sometimes, she did carefully create plans and then threw it away on hasty action. Decisive in the moment, with consideration for her actions’ effects on others. Maybe she did spend more time thinking about how to stop Solas than reflecting on what happened. Shame, regret, and sorrow as she locked herself away from family and friends. Felt she couldn’t turn to them, didn’t want to burden them. “I do feel responsible for Solas.”

Suledin chuckled. “Come here, and start the fire.”

Eirwen frowned. Suledin itched at her mind. Like the runes, she ought to recognize where she’d seen him before. Somewhere other than Clan Lavellan, the secret rested on the tip of her tongue. Slowly, she stood and crossed to where he knelt. Leaning over, she studied the motes of light drifting through the air. The runes formed a circle wide circle inscribed into the stone, and she noticed blackened scorch marks around the edges. She glanced at him. “There’s no wood.”

He nudged her. “And why would the People require such for their fires, da’elgara? The woods are Andruil’s sacred domain, home to the spirits of the forest. The spirits too deserve a home in this world.”

Eirwen thought of Cole, and Solas’ friend Wisdom corrupted into Pride. On the Sylvans in the woods, and the spirits dragged forcibly across the Veil. The Revenants lurking in ancient ruins, defending lost treasures from wandering adventurers. Those lost souls fallen to sadness, desperation, misery, and rage. “We’re separated from ourselves,” she said. “The elves and the spirits, there’s no difference is there?”

“Only the Veil,” he replied.

“It would be rude to use wood from the forest then,” Eirwen sighed, and extended her hand out over the circle. “If all elves had magic, then travelers would have no issue starting a fire to burn on its own.” Her lips twitched. Still, this magic was elvhen and she’d no idea where to begin. Iseth and the Keeper both taught her how to start a fire, but those began with an object to focus on. A flame did not burn in perpetuity, it needed fuel. “I don’t suppose you’ve any idea how I’m supposed to start an elvhen fire?”

He rubbed his mouth, hiding a grin. “I’ve no magic, da’elgara.”

“Yet, surprisingly, you’re a font of knowledge,” she countered with a smile. “A hint would be nice, especially if you’d like to hear about my adventures in the Inquisition this century.”

Suledin chuckled. “With such an offer, how dare I refuse?” One hand stretched out, and he took hold of her wrist. The other settled on the small of her back. “Do not focus on the physical manifestation of the flame,” he murmured in her ear. “Focus on its essence.”

“Essence?” She frowned. “You mean it’s spirit?”

“All fire is the one,” Suledin said. “Draw forth an echo of the Living Flame.”

 _All fire is one,_ Eirwen repeated. Her lips compressed into a thin line. _Just like teleportation, if every tree is the same tree then we can be standing next to any tree anywhere._ A fire that existed, not as a creation of friction fed on fuel but as concept. _The idea of fire, not the image,_ she thought. _Conjure an idea._ The knowledge of how must be in the elgar’arla. Her eyes narrowed. Maybe it’d come if she focused.

Draw forth, he’d said.

 _This isn’t creation,_ she thought. _Ignore everything, his hand on your back, his fingers on your wrist, his breath in your ear. Ignore it all. Focus._ The image of a fire appeared in her mind, distant and floating free in darkness. Like a wisp, not a campfire or a torch. Not even a ball of light. Hot, white, flickering in red, green, blue, and black. Fire, the dominion of Sylaise. And yet... no god, no mage could own a concept. Couldn’t claim a force. She saw it then, a spark in the darkness. Reached out. _Come to me._

Heat rolled against her palm.

“Well done,” Suledin murmured. “I knew you’d the knack.”

Eirwen glanced down, surprised to find the fire burning merrily within the runes. Slowly, she drew her hand back. Her mouth yanked sideways, her eyes narrowed. “I guess I do.”

“Good!” He clapped her on the back. “Now, you can tell me of your time in the Inquisition and the Dread Wolf.”

She sighed. Suledin was always like this, she remembered. He’d help, but out of self-interest. A lazy genius, he did only what was necessary. She remembered him lazing on tree branches when she was eleven. Head resting against the trunk, eyes closed and his arms crossed. Whenever their teachers interrogated him, they’d find his day’s work already done. The end result, inevitably, had been to assign him more. Each time, he rose to the challenge. By fifteen, he'd become one of their most reliable hunters. Then, he'd no time for anyone. And yet, she thought, Suledin always found her when she got lost or disappeared on an adventure. He followed her into the shemlen towns. Stole after her into taverns. He always brought her back before the Clan could leave. Went after her when Iseth abandoned her in spider and undead infested caves. Sometimes he came with Dirthara in tow, sometimes without. On more than one occasion, he’d followed her into the human settlements or chased her through the Chantry festivals. Once, she'd talked him into performing together on the streets for gold coins.

 _I missed the Clan more than I thought._  The Dalish taught strength in unity, they acted together as one. It was the lone wolf who died in the cold. She’d forgotten, and spent too much time relying on herself. Keeping others out of it, but what did protecting them serve? All it meant was she didn’t trust them. Her Clan, her friends in the Inquisition deserved the truth and their right to make a choice.  _Be above the People, and one of the People._ That impossible contradiction.

Eirwen glanced at Suledin. She wanted to tell him about the past five years, even if he was fake. "You wanted to know why I agreed to leave the Clan for the Conclave?"

"I still do," he replied, voice even. "You belong with the People."

“I went because I never wanted to be Keeper,” she said. “I didn’t think I was the one to carry that responsibility, and there were others who might be better suited to the role. I wanted to see the world my mother left me for. That’s why Istaemathoriel sent me to the Conclave. She agreed I needed to see how the shemlen lived.”

"Ah," he squeezed her shoulder, "I see."

“On the journey, I was supposed to make my decision,” she continued. “I got too caught up in the Inquisition, Corypheus, and… the Dread Wolf.”

“Let’s sit down,” he said.

She glanced at him. “Or?”

“Or you’ll take a tumble into that fire. Your legs won’t hold forever, da’elgara.”

Eirwen glanced down, studying her feet. Her thighs had already begun to shake. He was right, she couldn’t crouch forever. With a sigh, she sank to the ground. “I feel less intelligent now.”

“You’re bound to feel that way in a place like this,” Suledin replied. “Here,” he opened his arms, “rest against me.”

Her brow rose.

He grinned. “Like we used to when we were children. You would cuddle against me in the aravel when we traveled.”

Blushing, Eirwen looked away. “That was once.”

“Thrice,” he replied.

She sighed. “Okay, three times.”

“For three months,” Suledin said.

Eirwen glared at him.

He shrugged. “You were a rather needy child.”

She opened her mouth, shut it, then looked away. _I feel a little like a landed fish._ She tucked her knees to her chest. “My mother left me when my abilities manifested.”

Laughing, he scooted around behind her. His arms settled on her shoulders, and he rested his chin on her head. “Needy, as I said.”

“You are awful,” she said, but she let him pull her to his chest. “I missed you, Suledin.”

“And I you.”

Eirwen smiled, rolling onto her side as she had when she was a child and nestled against him. He leaned back, finding a position on the rocks. Their position reminded her of the naps she used to take with Solas at Skyhold, curled up together on the couch in his office. Surrounded by his murals, the low voices, and the quiet ruffling of pages overhead. Suledin was smaller, and she fit better in his arms. She wondered what it might be like with Dirthamen. Strangely, she found herself missing him too. “You’re still so comfortable.”

“I’ll accept the compliment,” he replied. “Now, you promised me a story.”

She sighed. “I did.”

His laugh rumbled in her ears. “And?”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Settle in, it’ll be long.”

“Begin at the beginning,” Suledin said.

Eirwen closed her eyes. As the lights came out in the sky overhead, she began at the beginning and told him of her adventures in the world of the shemlen.

 

***

 

In the town of Andoral's Reach below the Blasted Hills, Suledin knelt on the sloping rooftops jutting over the Templar training quarters, his hand on his spear. He studied the men and women bashing the straw filled dummies below with cold eyes. There were some ten in all, some seasoned warriors and a few recruits. After their corruption by Corypheus and the soul-sickened lyrium, the Templar ranks were decimated in Orlais and Fereldan. In the following years Templars from Nevarra and the Free Marches left to rebuild those orders. Now, only a skeleton guard remained.

He rubbed his mouth, and cast a glance at the necropolis nearby. The ziggurat too was poorly defended. A quick stop and all the spirits he might need would be at his disposal. The souls of the dead had a particular hatred for Templars. Envy, Rage, and Despair all longed to taste their repressed emotions.

Suledin’s jaw tensed. He might leave it to the spirits. A handful alone could quash these foolish shems. _Yet_ , he thought of Eirwen’s scar. The feel of her slick, waxy skin under his thumb. The thin divot cut into her cheek. His gaze returned to the shems below.

They trespassed in his territory.

“Are you certain this is wise?” Sariel asked from the eave above his head.

He smiled. “It is the opposite.”

“I suppose we must allow for foolhardiness.” The raven ruffled her wings. “You were not followed.”

“I know,” he replied.

“The Falon’din of old would never be so foolish,” Sariel added.

Suledin laughed. She spoke as if he were separate from himself. He supposed, in a way, he was. A portion of his spirit on one side of Fen’Harel’s Veil with his body and slumbering mind trapped on the other. “ _Falon’din_ has done this many times.”

She sighed. “Remember, I offered to bring you news or send others to aid the girl in your stead. We might’ve killed Fen’Harel then.”

“Your skill is legendary, Sariel, but not even you would’ve made it past Harel,” he replied. “In this weakened state, our secret comes first.”

Sariel groused, shuffling back and forth on the eave. Her feathers puffing about her neck, every line dissatisfied. She longed for a confrontation with Harel, who’d once been her mentor and friend.

“Besides,” he grinned, “if you killed Fen’Harel, who would lower the Veil?”

She snorted.

“You are clever, Sariel,” he said. “Against any other than Harel, I’d expect you to succeed.”

Sariel’s beady eyes narrowed. “And you are not weak, my lord. You’ve grown strong since our early days in this shadow world. Without your guidance, we’d have perished long ago.”

He chuckled. “I will take the compliment for what it is.”

“Eirwen will return to us,” Sariel added. “We are her Clan.”

Sariel had a way of sensing his emotions. She’d been there when he wove a piece of himself into Eirwen’s spirit as a child. Sariel watched over Eirwen when she stole away from the Clan, traversed the fields, and lurked near human towns. Taught her counting games with rocks. There when Eirwen stole her first set of shoes from a barn on the outskirts of Herenfell below the Vimmark Mountains. When the shemlen attacked Clan Lavellan twenty years ago, it was Sariel who led Keeper Istaemathoriel to recover a four year old Eirwen from the cave where her father fled and died. Sariel’s constant presence was why Eirwen wore his vallaslin. She’d not followed when Istaemathoriel sent Eirwen to spy on the Conclave; he’d ordered her to stay behind.

Suledin wondered if Sariel blamed herself for the tragedy that followed, and the tricks Fen’Harel played. “You’ve much reason as I to want these banal’ras dead.”

“I do,” Sariel replied, “if only so their bleating and sermonizing finally ends.”

Chuckling, Suledin brushed energies over the small part of himself woven into the core of Eirwen’s being. Able to track her, should the child find herself lost among the shemlen or trapped in a tomb. There to guide her, if she ever found herself in need of his aid. Hidden, where not even the likes of Fen’Harel or his traitorous brother Dirthamen might find it. In the past twenty years, the unnatural infections from the surgery faded and he’d become part of her.

Fen’Harel waking, the fumbling incompetence that led to the Veil tearing, her time in the Inquisition, Mythal and Dirthamen; all aberrations. His plans continued despite their interference, though every hiccup proved an irritation. The information he gleaned of Eirwen’s life from his other self trapped with her inside the elgar’arla suggested many punishments to be meted out.

Suledin’s gaze returned to the Templars, his grip tightening on his spear. Its shaft heartwood taken from falonan’adahl. No Glandival fashioned of stardust and sunlight, but for the butcher’s work ahead this weapon functioned well enough. “Make your choice quickly, Sariel.”

She sighed. “Relay your orders, my lord.”

“Seal the Chantry exits, pick off those who would flee.” His lips twitched. “Call upon Ardin should the task prove difficult, I left the Necropolis to his watch.”

Clicking her beak irritably, Sariel spread her wings. Magic shimmered across her feathers in brilliant blue light. “I am more than able, lord.”

Suledin grinned. “Then, we begin.”


	31. Chapter 31

Suledin dropped into the courtyard, less than a whisper on the wind. The spear rested on his shoulder, but he’d no need for it. There was a time when he could begin a massacre from anywhere with a murmur from atop a mountain, a suggestion signaled by a staccato rhythm staggered across centuries. His fingers nothing but a whisper across the fabric of a dream as his victims slumbered on in quiet contemplation. One nudge created a chain, and led to an explosion five hundred years into the future. In this stricken world, there was not time for singular and elegant revenge. No carefully spun weaves and threads were necessary to bring down empires. No time for artistry, not when a butcher’s blade put to a butcher’s work provided quicker results. He moved, unseen, into the training master’s shadow. Without pause, he lay his hand on the man’s shoulder. Leaning forward, he whispered in his ear. _Abomination._

The Templar jerked. His hand fell to the blade buckled at his hip, and gripped it tight. He moved forward, eyes on the first of his pupils locked in a tussle with a wooden blade. Steel slid free, shining in the sun.

The first scream echoed.

Suledin didn’t wait, he walked to the next. The female archery instructor running to stop her fellow teacher. His fingertips brushed her cheek. A puppet dangling on his strings.

She whirled and charged the line of four practicing on their targets.

He caught the two guards before they moved off the door.

They whirled in unison and headed into the Chantry.

He listened to the music on the wind, the paranoia filtering through the Templars in the yard, in the Chantry, in the Barracks. His poison spreading from one to the next. The screams as steel blades quenched their thirst in innocent blood. He heard the bang when the great doors opened, the confused shrieks of peasants, the maddened cries of the surviving Templars. All seeking retribution, seeing demons in those innocent shadows untouched by the Fade.

In the end, a little paranoia stoked through a city worked wonders.

Suledin leaned against the wall, lifted his face to the sun, and smiled. By the time he finished, no Templar would be welcome in Nevarra again. He’d see Fear, Panic, and Paranoia spread across Thedas in wildfire. Templars rising up to kill their brothers, to kill each other. Devouring the Chantry piece by piece as they went. He’d spare the Circle, but only just. Spare the Inquisition. The rest, an ugly malignant tumor he ought to have ended in the ages past, could burn. After all, he was a creature of vengeance, of punishment. Built his castle out of sorrow and suffering, and he did not regret. He cared for nothing; nothing except the small half-frozen child with knuckles battered and bloody clinging to his chest. Too cold and tired to cry, fragile to the touch but alive. Clung on tenaciously, fiercely, to the battered scraps of a future destined for nothing except hardships and heartbreak.

He’d no answer for why Eirwen and not another. She was not the first child to cling to his chest, not the first frozen and battered being to grip life as they died. Not the first to ever catch his eye, not the first to show an extraordinary strength of spirit, not even in this shadowed world. No reason behind any of this at all. It just was, and that was enough.

She was enough.

He knew the price of Evanuris and the price of the elgar’arlas, knew too she’d pay both without regret or remorse. His beautiful contradiction. Selfless where he was selfish. Kind where he was cruel. Yet, ruthless, relentless, and monstrous in her own right. The woman who saw a better world than the one they’d been given. One day, she’d chastise him for not doing more when he had the power to aid their People. When he had the strength to change the world. They might debate cost and consequence then, but those were the conversations of the future.

Whether as ally or opposition, for her, he’d chosen to be better.

To be better required he care for more in this world than just her, even as he’d damn the whole mess to free her from it. He was a monster, the father of demons, the dead, the spirits, and all broken things. As Elgar’nan said, he was born to be a butcher.

The butcher killed as no one else did.

Falon’din burned out rebellion, the hammer to Dirthamen’s blade. The dreams of glorious conquest answered with brutality and death. The lesson inherent in the fall. Cold and silent in the dark. The inquisitor who tore the truth from throats and wrent apart spirits. The punisher who punished for the sake of punishment. Always there were those yet to be punished for their crimes, and those who deserved death more than others.

His eyes opened, _slavers._

 

***

 

Eirwen stood in the field, watching the elven woman in white exit the forest. She walked over the blood soaked ground, daintily picking her way through the fallen soldiers. Neither dirt nor blood seemed to touch her, graceful as she was. Her pale eyes moved from one body to the next. Studying those who’d fallen in the hail of arrows with careful concentration. The ones cut down by black riders on black harts. Overhead, the ravens circled. Though at this distance, they were nothing more than black dots winging through a clear blue sky.

The woman’s white hair fell across her shoulders in waves, glimmering silver like a distant star. Untouched by the sun, she produced a light all her own. A light unsettling yet comforting, a woman who was not quite one with the world. Faded like starlight, the cooling sun of winter.

_Yet the forest behind her is so radiant,_ Eirwen thought. _The grass so green, so alive._

“Do you see her, da’elgara?” Suledin asked, his warm hands settling on her shoulders. “The distant light born in transition between the dark of winter and the coming spring.”

Eirwen watched the woman lay a small hand on one of the fallen, a human boy no older than fourteen. The tattered banner lay across his body, the pole gripped tightly in white knuckled hands. The sigil belonged to one of Fereldan’s great houses, a member of the Bannorn. The boy stirred in the grass, dark lashes opening and he looked up at the woman with wide, frightened eyes. The woman smiled gently, pushing a few black locks off his bloody forehead. “She’s who I’ll be when I leave here, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Suledin said. “She is the you that sleeps within. The you who will be after mortality is purged, and you are returned to your physical shell.” His lips rested on her ear’s tip. “When every moment of every day becomes agonizing, trapped within a body. The offending presence of death in each precious piece.” A finger trailed down her arm. “Moment by moment, you will live aware of your body dying. Tortured by this frail fractured form, blood too thin to hold the strength of your spirit. When the fire burns too brightly, all crumbles to ash.”

“That’s what you feel,” Eirwen said, realizing. He spoke of her future, but it was a past he lived. _Suledin… he isn’t Dalish at all._ “The elvhen who became mortal are dead, but you’re not are you? Your body is mortal, yet your spirit lives beyond it. I watched you grow up too, Suledin. You are aging, your body dying.” She paused. “What was it like to live in a world without death?”

“There was death always. We could be killed, but we did not age,” he said. “We did not fall to sickness. In time, many of those who were born among the first left to seek out what lay beyond our world. Left to wander in the Beyond, and beyond it to darkness between the stars.”

Eirwen swallowed. _The darkness between stars._ Another adventure waited out there, when her time finished. Would it be a rest, a long sleep, or something else? She’d leave and never return, regardless of whether she was killed or not.

“You will remain for a time, as some of the People once did to guide others and nurture their development but...” he trailed off.

“If I leave here as the Winter Light, I’ll be on the path,” she finished. “I’ll remain until my time comes, and then I’ll go.”

“As we all must, da’elgara,” Suledin said. “Such is the price of power. We live on until this world cannot hold us, until we see it fracturing and fraying at edges. When our very presence unravels all that lays before us. We are called then make the long walk to distant shores, never to return.” He paused. “You began as a mortal. Your time will be shorter than others.”

She glanced at him. _What about the Evanuris?_ She wondered. Were there others beyond those the Dalish remembered? If so, was what he spoke of their fate? She doubted he’d answer that question, besides another one was far more pertinent. “How long will I have?”

“Twenty years,” he replied. “Twenty years from the moment you emerge, no more.”

Her eyes closed. “That’s more than I believed I’d get.”

“I know, da’elgara,” Suledin said.

Eirwen’s lips tugged into a small smile, and she wondered why she did not feel sad. He was right, she thought. The truth did hurt, but only a little. Her eyes opened. She studied the fingers on her right hand. She was Dalish, walker of the lonely path. The Dalish nature was to wander, rootless with the whole world as their home. The time always came to say goodbye. Whether to land or Clan made little difference in the end. Her eyes rose to the woman in white walking through the battlefield, searching for those who lay on the edge of death. Whose lives she might steal back from that cold grip, as she’d rescued her own so many times over. “You’re tired too,” she said.

His warm hands gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I am.”

She leaned against him, exhaustion settled on her shoulders. Her mouth pulled into a grim line. Her eyes rose to the sky overhead. There was so far left to go. “The girl you loved died a long time ago, Suledin. The woman Fen’Harel loved died a similar death.” Then she smiled. “The one Dirthamen swore himself to will also die, I’m sure.”

Suledin chuckled. “The shades of the self are purged as time progresses, that’s called growing up.”

She laughed. “I can’t say I regret it.”

“We cannot become what we are not,” he said. “As time passes, we merely transform into who we are.”

Eirwen turned her head, eyes lifting to his and watched liquid brown turn to pure gold. Her hand rose. She lay it on his cheek, felt the quiet tug inside herself. She _knew_ him. It was old knowledge, knowledge from within. Not her knowledge, but the orb’s. Over a hundred thousand souls trapped inside her. They knew him. They knew not to trust him, and knew too he spoke the truth.

“Da’elgara,” he said, his voice gentle. “Our path was forged long ago, written in the fabric of the world. We are family. We will be friends, and enemies, and lovers. We will depart this world together when the time comes and carry our conflict forward into eternity, seeking that which lies beyond the Beyond.”

She studied his eyes. He looked like Dirthamen now, exactly like Dirthamen. If Dirthamen wore Falon’din’s vallaslin. _Sulevin. Suledin._ Her friend, they’d been together so long and she never noticed. Never suspected. Not once. _Dirthamen said he’d once been called Suledin._

He lifted her chin, his eyes darkened. “You know who I am, Eirwen.”

“The Friend of the Dead,” she whispered. “Falon’din.”

“Yes,” he said. “The Dread Wolf’s Great Enemy.”

_We will depart together for what lies beyond the Beyond,_ her mind echoed. She could not think on it further, there’d be time for shock later. She was too numb now to feel betrayed. “Then, why would I want to leave with you?”

He smiled, and glanced away to where the woman in white still searched among the dead. “We are the same, you and I.”

She blinked.

“You will understand in time, da’elgara.”

Her gut knotted, gaze falling away to the greenwood before rising to watch the ravens circling in the air. _Friends, enemies, and lovers._ They’d been friends once, family certainly. She didn’t know if they could be lovers. Given what Dirthamen and Solas both said of Falon’din, enemy felt inevitable. “I suppose,” her lips twitched, “I don’t understand it now.”

Suledin chuckled, his voice warm in her ears.

They stood together in silence for some time, watching her future self tirelessly walk the battlefield. Judging, it seemed, the souls of those who lay dying. Choosing those she wished to save, and those she let go. Eirwen knew deep down that woman in white had the power to save them all. A wave of her hand might raise all those wounded from the field, yet she chose not to.

“Were you like Solas?” Eirwen asked, at last.

“What a question,” he murmured. “One with many potential answers.”

She glanced at him, and swallowed her impatience. “Did you ever intend to tell me?”

“I’ve not told any except those who knew,” he replied. “I have walked among the banal’ras since the Fall, spent life after life among the remnants of the People. After they too fell, I spent my time among their tattered descendants and their descendants. I walked the ancient lands of Tevinter as a slave, followed Shartan after Andraste, and advised the Princes of the Dales. Knight Protector Lavellan was a friend once, long ago. I’d say you were like her, but,” he smiled, “that would be a lie.”

_Life after life,_ she repeated dully. Perhaps, the Suledin Lavellan she knew had not been a lie. At least, not entirely. _A lie of omission, I suppose._ No worse than Solas. The pain that should’ve scorched her spirit like a torch thrust into her chest felt so distant now. Transformed to a gentle ache. Sorrow without regret. _I am robbed of regret._

“I did plan to tell you, da’elgara.”

Eirwen glanced at him, surprised. “You did?”

Suledin laughed. “I would not be here otherwise.”

“I see,” she whispered. Her eyes fell to her fingers. “I should hate you, I think. Be frightened, scared. Yet, I don’t... remember how.”

“You will in time,” he said. “The elgar’arlas strips all away. We did not know of emotions in the beginning, no love, no hope, no sorrow, no rage, no jealousy, nor envy, nor greed. The spirits did not have names, we existed in simplicity. That is the simplicity Fen’Harel longs for, though he does not realize it.”

Eirwen swallowed.

Suledin grinned. “Though, he himself never knew our ways in the time before. He learned of it through his sojourns in the Fade, lived the life through the dreams and memories of others. He never chafed at its constraints, never asked in curiosity if there could be more. It is not the nature of a spirit to question their purpose, and yet we do.”

Eirwen’s heart quickened, all those emotions which lay in the foundation of her soul. The pain of surviving when so many around her died etched itself across her surely as the vallaslin once had. Her hand rose, clenched against her breast. _I never forgave myself for being alive._ “You didn’t love.”

“There cannot be love without loss,” he replied. “We lived timeless. When all was, we could not treasure that which was never endangered.”

“When nothing ends, there can be no beginnings,” she murmured. _All those who died, and I went on._ Her eyes returned to that future self scouring the battlefields, purposeful yet acting without knowing. Desperate still to save all those who could be. Perhaps, those distant regrets formed her foundation. “You’re suggesting to love is mortal.”

He chuckled. “Isn’t it?”

“If I truly become immortal, will I love?” she countered.

“You knew love,” Suledin replied evenly. “The mortal in you may feel it again.”

She sighed. “You’re talking in circles.”

“I know, da’elgara,” he said. “I know sorrow and regret. I was born from loss, my spirit fractured and pieced together by an unsteady hand.” His thumb swiped across his nose. “The first mistake.” His smile widened. “The first evil, if you will.”

“Mistakes aren’t evil,” Eirwen replied.

“They are when all is perfection.” Suledin’s chin rested on her head, and his arms wrapped around her. “Discord in harmony, fracturing the song.”

Eirwen shook her head, and wondered if she should shake him off. Wondered if she should fight him. The frankness in the way he spoke, the melancholy, and the darkness. The image before her shifted to a different battlefield. From the woman in white wandering to the great bronze and silver egg-shaped ships whisking by overhead, blasting beams of light into an onrushing horde. A warrior in black stood on the cliff overlooking the field, his cape whipping about in the wind. “Different isn’t wrong, Suledin.”

“Some would disagree,” he said.

Her mouth pulled into a thin line. “They’re wrong.”

Suledin chuckled. “Perhaps.”

She sighed, exasperated. “We cannot stay as we are forever!”

His chest reverberated with laughter, rumbling and shaking against her back. His hands slid down her waist, wrapping around her stomach.

Pleased, she thought though she’d no desire to please him.

“You are so very mortal, da’elgara.”

“I suppose you’ll say I’m banal’ras next,” she said.

“Never,” Suledin said. “I was aware of you in the moment before the moment your mother bore you into this world, and I have been with you in every moment since.”

She blinked. He sounded exactly like how she expected a Creator to be, a truth both comforting and disturbing. Her eyes fell to the stump at her shoulder where her arm had been. “I don’t think Solas would’ve looked at me if not for the Anchor.”

“You are neither his destruction nor his salvation,” Suledin said. “You are not _for_ him.”

“I’m not for anyone,” she snapped.

“Aren’t you?”

The question hung there and she swallowed, wishing he was wrong. He was, she decided. _Just because he was there first doesn’t mean he’s right._ It just meant they had a history. That Suledin or Falon’din had a plan. A plan involving her certainly, but she was a free actor. _I don’t have to play along._

Instead, her eyes narrowed on the scene playing out before her. The battle, she supposed, between the elvhen. Their bodies falling on the field, no different from the scene before with the humans. The trees smoking, fire whipping through golden fields, and the acrid stench of burning flesh. Overhead, floating cities hovered in the sky like distant stars.

Tears clung to her lashes. She thought on the trials of her Clan, hunted by the humans and living on the outskirts. The Dalish clinging to their past, the destruction of the Dales, the civil war after the Veil rose, the millions enslaved by Tevinter, and the elves of the cities living in squalor. Caged away in Alienages, working as servants, poor merchants, and prostitutes. Never allowed further into human society. “Did you…” her voice choked on emotion, “did you ever care about us?”

“I care for nothing in this world,” Suledin replied. “Nothing, except you.”

_That is far too much pressure to put on a person,_ Eirwen thought bitterly. “I am tired of being a source of moral guidance for Evanuris.”

“I am in need of no guide.” His mouth dropped to her ear. “You cannot make me care, da’elgara. I will not,” his lips moved against her skin, “I have not,” she felt the damp warmth of his breath, “I shall not. I am a greedy and selfish creature. I am ambition. I take what is mine. I would destroy this world to free you from it.”

Eirwen turned her head, his lips grazing her cheek. She met his eyes. “You’re a liar.”

He grinned. “Am I?”

“Maybe love is selfish, but that’s not all it is,” she whispered. “Maybe you cared for nothing once, but you do now.” Her fingers caught his chin, and she studied his eyes. “I see it in you, Suledin. You regret. There can be no regrets if we don’t care.”

His eyes darkened.

Eirwen leaned forward. “Even if you haven’t watched over us, you’ve been one of us. Both of the People and above them.”

Suledin smiled; a faint, worrisome smile.

“To love another is to care for what they care for and protect what they protect,” she continued. “Dying is easy, guilt over surviving is easy, but living? That’s hard.” Her eyes returned to the field, where the image again shifted to hundreds of elves and spirits working the fields. “We must decide what we’re living for.”

He chuckled. “I believe that’s the question I’m supposed to ask you.”

Glancing at him, Eirwen allowed herself a small smile. “I suppose I’m ahead of you then.”

“You’ve grown faster than expected,” Suledin said. Leaning back, he eyed her with a sad smile. “I would keep you from pain if I could, da’vhenan, but to do so would rob you of your right to live. Your chance at choice, and the knowledge you chose the path you walk. To stay in the shadows, cosseted and protected is not who you are.”

Eirwen’s eyes fell. She wanted to hate him, and maybe she should. He’d lied to her as Solas had, probably planned to use her as Solas had. Quite possibly for a worse fate than battle with Corypheus in order to steal back a lost foci. Maybe, she thought, she forgave him more easily because they were so much more alike. Eirwen withheld a sigh. Those similarities too were probably lies. Or, at the very least, not the whole truth.

“What do you live for, da’vhenan?”

The question startled her. “The horizon.”

“The horizon?” he tasted the word, almost as if he savored it. “Ah, I see.” He laughed. “You chase adventure.”

“Not quite,” she said. “We’ll never find the place where the sky meets the land, it’s an illusion. Still, there’s the possibility of what might be. The potential in the unknown, and the changes it might bring.” Her eyes closed. “Walking in dreams, in allowing ourselves to dream, to chase the prospect of a better tomorrow and the freedom to reach out to grasp it.”

He studied her, hands still at her waist.

“I live for change, Suledin.”

“Change?” His lips curled. “As always, you remain a strange creature.”

Reaching up, she lay her hand against his cheek. “Change is transition. Neither good nor evil, it’s neutral. There will be pain and suffering, uncertainty and fear, but that’s the price of being born.” She pushed her fingers into his hair, and smoothed it back. “We begin in pain, thrust from where we are comfortable and safe. We wake in darkness, afraid. Then the night ends, the sun rises, the clouds clear, and we discover a new world waiting for us.”

Suledin sighed.

Slowly, Eirwen turned away from the scene below and faced him. Standing on her tiptoes, she rested her forehead against his. “You must have faith, lethallin.”

He caught the back of her head with the flat of his palm, and pulled her closer. The heat of his body burned feverishly on her skin. “I am that which endures when all else crumbles,” he murmured. “I remain when all others have broken. Should you become the howling storm, then I will be the mountain that cannot bend.”

“It may take an age, but the sea always beats back the rock,” she said. “The wind eats away at the mountain’s resolve. The stars come out to light the night sky, and the clever reed bends with the wind.”

“You would terrify Elgar’nan,” Suledin laughed.

Eirwen jerked, that tripped over a memory. Something Dirthamen had said about Arlathan, the Black City, and the Golden Throne. Or, perhaps, it’d come from Harel. From… someone... _Elgar’nan…_ “Isn’t he…”

“Dead?” Suledin’s brows rose. “Indeed. I killed the old bastard as the Veil rose, he’s nothing more than prowling rage now. Corrupted by Andruil’s weapon, he haunts the hallowed halls of our once great city. His body nothing more than bones, flesh, and sinew rotting on a throne once golden.” His mouth twisted with a cruel satisfaction. “He will rise again in time.”

She froze, her heartbeat quickening in her chest. “How did you survive?”

“I severed my consciousness from my body before the end came, and one of my faithful carried me from Arlathan.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” she sighed.

Suledin chuckled. “I see why Fen’Harel remains so addicted to you, and so frustrated.”

“Frustrated,” she echoed.

“I wonder if you will remember him when you wake,” Suledin continued, ignoring the unspoken question. “Or Dirthamen.”

“Or you,” Eirwen said.

He laughed. “It is not possible for you to forget me, da’elgara.”

Eirwen shook her head. “I won’t pretend to understand you.”

“Yet you did so well earlier,” he said.

“I’m tired of being moral guidance for Evanuris,” she snapped, maybe if she repeated it enough times it’d be true. “I’m not some toy you can wind up whenever it’s convenient. You lot are the Creators. You’re supposed to be guiding me, not the other way around!”

“You are no longer a child,” he countered. “It is the young’s duty to care for their elders, and take on their responsibilities. Provide them guidance in a changing world.”

Her mouth gaped. She felt a bit like a landed fish, struggling for oxygen without the ability to process it. Just left flopping on the deck until darkness inevitably took her. A blush colored her cheeks. “You…”

He grinned, and he leaned in close. “See, da’elgara. Two can play.”

With that, she thought, he was her friend Suledin again. “Without two there is no game.”

“Except those we play with ourselves,” he answered merrily, “think on how delightful solo activities can be.”

“Contrary,” she said. “You are contrary.”

“Am I?”

Her eyes rose. He still wore the same face as Dirthamen, rather than Suledin’s. She supposed that face was his real one though, and it just made everything more confusing. The best choice now was to change to subject. “What are you living for, Suledin?”

His fingers seized her chin and he dragged her forward, his mouth slammed down on hers. Hot, passionate, demanding in the way his tongue stroked hers. His lips moving to leave a buzz on her skin. A kiss that felt so much like Dirthamen’s, she thought. Yet also like Solas’.

_Why do they keep kissing me?_  Eirwen wondered. She wasn’t particularly attractive, yet she’d turned into some sort of Creator catnip. _Friends, Enemies, and Lovers._ Her fingers passed up his cheek, cradling the back of his neck. This kiss though, it felt more like a distraction. An attempt to hide some other truth, and an answer he didn’t want to give. _Maybe, he doesn’t know._ Solas walked the din’anshiral, chased death out of duty. Dirthamen wanted to drag the Evanuris into the world so they could be hunted down, or at least remember what it was like to not be gods. Mythal wanted vengeance. Falon’din… Falon’din wanted to leave this world, and for her to leave it with him. Her voice escaped her, breathless against his lips. “What are you living for?”

He grinned. “I suppose I’ve not given a satisfactory answer.”

Pinned to his chest, she shook her head. “I’m more certain you’re giving me the ones you think I want.” Poking it sharply, she grinned. “I remember them working so well on the older giggling girls. Don’t you, lethallin?”

He frowned. “I live for the day what is mine will be mine again.”

_Lying,_ Eirwen thought and looked away. He lied as often as Dirthamen spoke the truth. Her mind turned desperately to what Solas had said of Falon’din. “They say your appetite for adulation grew so great, you bathed the world in blood.”

“Fen’Harel says so, I suspect,” Suledin said. “He is correct in one sense, only those he remembers. I did go to war for worshippers, I killed them by hundreds of thousands. In time, I will again.” He smirked. “I shall take pleasure reminding Shem’Harel how he has become that which he most loathes.”

“I will kill hundreds of thousands too,” she whispered.

“Yet not for your vanity,” he chuckled. “If he told you that story, remember the part where all the gods banded together to stop me.”

“You didn’t either,” Eirwen said. The answer lurked there in her subconscious, the voice of another priest who divined the reason behind his god’s wars.

He raised a brow. “Oh?”

She frowned, there in the shadows and the whispers. They weren’t separate but a part of her. “War over your vanity, that’s not it. You’re not that petty.”

“I am precisely that petty, da’vhenan,” Suledin said. “However, you are close now. Tell me, my heart, why did the god Falon’din go to war?”

“The strength of the Evanuris relied on their number of worshippers, you needed the strength for something. You wanted to stand above the rest.” Her eyes closed. “No, you wanted vengeance.”

“Against whom?”

There it was, a ripple in her mind. The answer spoken not by a separate voice but her own. “Elgar’nan.” Her eyes widened, and her hands flew to her mouth. “Creators, Elgar’nan!”

His golden eyes softened. “Why, da’elgara?”

“He broke you. He made it so you could never be whole, he stole your purpose.”

“Let that be your lesson,” his long finger pressed to her forehead, “Falon’din is not a creature of compromise. He damns all for no cause but his own.”

A tiny smile tweaked the corners of Eirwen’s mouth. He was her friend Suledin again. Suledin who always told her to try again when she failed, who reminded her she wasn’t responsible for the feelings of others and their choices. “Solas isn’t my fault.”

“Fen’Harel carries his own weight,” Suledin replied. “You are playing admirably in a game heavily stacked against you, da’vhenan. Delivering the unexpected while your hands and feet are bound, your eyes blinded, unable to speak, and trapped at the bottom of a dank hole. The board is beyond you, but that you still play on speaks well of your courage. That you’ve tricked others into moving in your stead is most impressive.”

“You sound like you’re going to help me,” she said.

He chuckled. “I will, but you shall not see the aid for what it is.”

Her eyes widened, there was only one move her mind told her. One move to throw all into chaos and splatter the board. He’d do what Dirthamen planned to do, feed them all into the dragon’s den. He’d open the box, just as she had. “Andruil! Sylaise! Ghilan'nain!” Her hands seized his chest. “No, Suledin! You can’t let them out!”

“The Veil will be lowered, it must be. Fen’Harel requires a threat to be shoved into action. He will succumb to the fear he might not accomplish his goals in time. You are unable to provide that fear, but I can. This world will end, Eirwen,” his hand gently cupped her cheek, “but the People, our People, they shall survive.” His soft eyes promised something, though she didn’t know what. “You have my promise, White Snow. I will safeguard the Dalish, and those who join them. I will protect them as I would you,” he smiled wryly, “were you not one who thoroughly wasted my efforts."

"I don't recall you saving me often," she said.

He chuckled. "If I played nursemaid on every adventure you'd be robbed of your chance to grow. There'd be no test of character if you knew I or some other ancient would come to your rescue whenever you were in trouble. I can't have you dependent on me, da'vhenan."

She frowned.

"I settled on pulling you from the fire whenever you needed aid most, though I've never been one for grand gestures and heroic interference. A hint here and there to point you in the proper direction, a nudge.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “And now you’re going to be a monster, you'll help me save the world by destroying it?”

“You will most likely hate me,” Suledin said.

“I suppose my hatred depends on the outcome,” Eirwen replied. “Outside the people as individuals, I’m not sure the world is worth saving.”

Ruffling her hair, he laughed. “Life has taught you too well, and too quickly.”

“All the arguments rely on the idea there is nothing better than this,” she said. “I’m not sure I believe that, that there’s no option but for it to be worse.”

“Only the potential it might be,” Suledin replied.

“But not the certainty.” Eirwen looked into his eyes. “Nothing in life is without risks.”

“And what is conquest when there are no risks?”

“Nothing at all.”

Suledin’s head tilted. “Welcome to the Evanuris, Independence.” He smiled. “Truly, you are a Goddess of Change.”

The word rattled in her head, led to a cascading release. Some knot within her let go, relaxed, and fell away. Some strain she hadn’t known she’d been fighting against, a pressure winking in and out inside her cranium. “They wanted to live,” she whispered, recalling on the woman in white and the battlefield. “That’s why I saved them. They wanted to live.”

“They rebelled against death,” Suledin said. “Now, you must be wary of what lies in the dark behind you.”

“Dependence,” she whispered. “Subjugation. Command.”

“We are all balanced on the knife’s edge, da’vhenan,” his dry lips pressed to her forehead. “You more than any other exist as contradiction, to be both at once. That is what it means to be mortal.”

“Did I destroy Command?” Eirwen asked.

“You introduced contradiction and challenge to its ordered world,” Suledin said. “You freed Command of itself as it asked to be.”

“The demon met the spirit,” she whispered.

He chuckled. “And yet both are neither.”

Eirwen looked up at him.

“What is the opposite of Compassion?” Suledin asked.

“Cruelty,” she answered.

Suledin studied her with his quiet golden eyes. “Your Cole was often unintentionally cruel to those around him in his attempt to extend his compassion.”

“He tried his best,” Eirwen said. She tugged at her sleeve. “I’m not sure he ended up more compassionate as a spirit.”

His hands rested on her shoulders. “Sometimes, Cruelty is necessary even in healing. Sometimes, Compassion harms more than helps. People are complex, even spirits, and both aspects bear sharp edges. They cut and they harm, and both remain necessary. You harbor hero and monster both, savior and destroyer, inspire the transition from victim to victor and victor to oppressor. The rebels who rise to overthrow their masters and inevitably fall before the tide, who craft their own systems of corruption.”

“Then, the rebels rise again,” Eirwen answered.

“So they do,” Suledin smiled. “This is a cycle, not an ending.”

“You’re the death I rebel against,” she whispered.

“And I, as death, love you all the more for it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t leave in twenty years.”

“I know,” Suledin said, his fingers stroked her cheek as sadness touched his eyes. “Yet when all others go, I will remain.”

Her hands wrapped around his head, her eyes studying him. “Why?”

A strange, mirthless smile curled on his mouth. “Because, at last, I discovered Purpose. The purpose Elgar’nan ripped from me all those ages ago.” His fingertips curved down to her chin, a rueful expression in his eyes. “Or, I should say, my purpose found me.””

“Isn’t that Dirthamen?” she asked.

“I thought so.” His lips twitched. “Once perhaps, not anymore.”

Her voice escaped her in a squeak. “Me?”

“No,” he laughed. “You merely inspired growth toward independence.”

Mouth trembling, she studied her feet. “Good.”

“You are not responsible for me, Eirwen,” he said. “The true price of freedom is the release of control. What I do and what I choose to do, the blame for neither falls at your feet.”

Her arms crossed. Now, the conversation felt far too similar to the ones they’d had while living in Clan Lavellan. Except, now, they included more touching. Or, she remembered, lying on a distant green field underneath the open sky at fifteen. He’d been with her then, the possibility of maybe and might tantalizing in the air. The knowledge he was older and more responsible, too much so to take advantage. _I’ve always been safe with him._ Yet, just because she was didn’t mean others were also. He existed as a contradiction. “Even when I could’ve stopped you?”

“Freedom offers up a chance for failure,” he replied. “There will be rebellions often as there are revolutions. Changing established order is difficult. A slave may run for freedom, but that does not guarantee a successful escape.”

“Solas led a rebellion against you and he failed,” Eirwen said. “Are you saying I’m going to be your Fen’Harel for eternity?”

“You are something else, as am I,” Suledin replied. “I’ll be a different creature when I wake in truth, yet I shall remain as I am now.” He smiled. “A monster in contradiction.”

“You won’t remember me, but you’ll remember your promise to me,” she said, the knowledge came faster now and it filled in the blanks. Where she struggled before, now she sped up. Sped up with a hundred thousand souls melding together into one, into her. Simpler, purer, angrier. Angry at him, angry at them all, and desperately defiant, yet tempered by need and knowledge. _We are the Dalish, the walkers of the lonely path._

“I won’t know why until I do,” Suledin said. “I am apart from myself as you were. When the Veil falls, this life of mine ends.”

_Friends. Enemies. Lovers._

The words chased her like a promise, haunted like a curse. “I hate you,” she whispered. “I love you, and I hate you, and I wanted to forget. I wanted to pretend our childhood together didn’t matter.”

“Dirthamen is attracted to you because I am,” he said, voice harsh where his hands were gentle. “We are one in many ways, and in this most of all. He may not see my mark on you, but he is drawn all the same. Between us, he is the better version. Kinder in his own way, more capable, and yet...”

“Yet?” her voice hitched.

“Sulevin cannot love you,” Suledin said. “Solas cannot either, not truly. Chase, yes. Desire, yes.” He pulled her closer, “but love? No. Immortals can only approximate, they cannot understand except by proxy.”

“I don’t believe that,” Eirwen whispered.

“You will,” he replied. “I did not understand love until I met you, until I resolved to truly live within the confines of a Dalish life.” His lips twitched. “Until I planned to die.”

“You must have used magic,” she said. “You… you were always so good at everything.”

“I asked another to look after you,” Suledin replied. “The rest was experience." 

“Falon’din would never do that!” Eirwen snapped, rage ripping through her. The very idea was madness, foolishness, he could never… would never… never… give up magic? Preposterous. That’d be… Her head pounded, eyes squeezing shut.

“Hold onto yourself, love,” he murmured. “You’re almost through.”

“Cheating,” she muttered.

He stroked her hair. “I am not an honest being.”

Her fingers tangled in his clothes, slipped on leather. “I’ll beat the odds.”

“You are welcome to try,” he replied. “I, however, play with weighted dice.”

Slipping free, the drag caught her and yanked her down. “Suledin, will you…” she didn’t know how to ask, didn’t know how to say it, didn’t want to say it, “will you still... when the Veil…”

“Always,” Suledin said.

“Will... I?”

He smiled, his face so far away now. “I hope so, Eirwen.”

Her hand stretched out. _Hope,_ the word tumbled through her mind. _Uncertainty._ Her eyes widened. _Freedom._ Falon’din flashed through her mind, in his black and silver armor, cold, and dark, and distant. The sneer curling his upper lip, no warmth in his smile. Rigid and unbending, he’d never have allowed for uncertainty. No room for equals. _Equals._ He’d changed. _Change._ The Evanuris didn’t change, didn’t compromise. _Love._ The grip swirled about her, yanking her down. “I don’t want to go,” she whispered. “I want to stay.”

He laughed. “Come home someday.”

_Home._ Her heart thundered in her ears. _Suledin. Solas. Sulevin._

Was there a pattern in that?

Was there?

Was…

What was her name?

Her eyes opened light gleaming to through the windows. A dark haired elf stood over her, watching with inky black eyes. Harsh cut cheeks, and marked with Dirthamen’s vallaslin. He gleamed before her eyes, ancient and whole. Yet broken also, fractured pieces tethered his soul elsewhere in a patchwork jumble. She lifted a heavy arm, fingers extending to touch the light.

He caught her hand. Cold, his skin. Contained. “What is your name?”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. He had dark eyes. Hers were blue. “Independence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to Laalratty for reminding me I needed to finish up and post this chapter as I've been so caught in Nano and job hunting, I forgot. Thank you! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I'd say I'm sorry for the reemergence of the Falon'din/Lavellan ship, but.. not really. I can't stop him anyway, he's a character who basically writes himself. He gets a nice "Paradise Lost" Lucifer/Hades vibe going for himself. His war with Elgar'nan got a lot more interesting once I started poking at it. Dude can hold a grudge for a long time goddamn time. 
> 
> What really stood out to me about him. He talks in a mix of truth and lies. The part where Solas said it took all the gods banding together to bloody Falon'din in his own temple in order to stop him really stood out to me. Like it's easy to miss behind the vanity and the blood, but the dude is a powerhouse. He and Dirthamen as the eldest Evanuris are probably the most dangerous, and Falon'din is more dangerous than Dirthamen. For one thing, he doesn't even have access to all his powers, strength, and abilities in a mortal body.
> 
> One of the most powerful Evanuris chilling with the Dalish in the middle of Corypheus trying to destroy the world cracks me up. You could probably find him sleeping on a rooftop come the apocalypse. He's my very special hobo-nuris, just... don't tell him he takes after Flemythal. He might barter his services if he finds the situation and the people in it amusing enough to bother with. Most likely to pose as a wandering warrior poet with a quick wit and terrible rhymes. "Why Should I Worry" by Billy Joel is his theme song. 
> 
> I will not lie, Eirwen is his morality pet. She's probably been his morality pet since he made his debut in "On the Wings of Ravens" ages ago, and just up and went, "yeah, see her? Mine." No iteration of him since then has let that fact go, so he's proving himself to be a case of "In Every Universe". I'm not saying he'll actually manage to win her over, just that's his opinion on the subject. Will commit mass murder for her. Will also stab Solas in the gut, though you don't need to request that. He'll do it for free. 10/10 the Evanuris who was planning to hold off until Eirwen was thirty, also PO'd that another elvhen put the moves on her because she's too young for that shit. (Looking at you, Solas.) He's The Evil One by his own admission and he likes the fact most of the fandom interprets his character as a lazy, shallow, dumb, disgusting loony.
> 
> Eirwen and Falon'din line up against each other, he's a tyrant in his way or he was. He's a self-aware monster, and he's different from Dirthamen in that he doesn't feel bad about it or feel like making up for it. I'd say Eirwen's independence, innocence, defiance all play a role with him, but I genuinely have no idea what kicks off his "mine" impulse.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter. ^_^


	32. Chapter 32

Solas stepped out of June’s still functioning eluvian and into a large hall. The walls threaded upward, wood, bumpy, like the hollowed out insides of a massive trunk. It was a tree, he realized as he looked up. The domed ceiling gave hints at wooden paths winding overhead. Shafts of golden light beamed through far off windows, splattering across the smooth marble dais. He sensed life everywhere around him, a bustling city. He entered inside some sort of a palace, a great fortress not unlike Skyhold. A living fortress grown from the bones of June’s ancient workshops. Went up as June dug deep. _Eirwen,_ Solas thought as his eyes found the arched exit and smooth metal door. Headed toward it, Cole at his heels. _I ought to have brought a delegation._ When Mythal bullied him into coming to treat with Dirthamen and Eirwen, he hadn’t expected to find the beginnings of a new civilization sprung up overnight. A civilization which eschewed the conversations they’d once had about the ancient elvhen living in trees, when he spoke of crystal twining through the branches. Of songs whose chorus comprised a hundred thousand notes, spells playing together in perfect harmony.

The ancient elves of Elvhenan did not live in trees, he’d said. So, she built a tree to live in.

_When will I stop underestimating her?_

He opened the doorway, half expecting to find an empty hall waiting for him. He did not, instead he found himself face to face with a pair of young guards. One a bare-faced elf no more than one and twenty, an oversized helmet half sliding over his eyes, and the other a short, beardless dwarf with Castless tattoos marking his forehead and cheeks.

“What’d I tell you, Dwennen?” the elf said. “I told you, I said, there’s only one in all the world be coming through this eluvian. The Wolf’s locked the rest of ‘em out, so the other oldies’re all stuck rippin’ open holes and portin’ about.”

“Had to come on a day Balessan’s off shift,” Dwennen the dwarf glowered at Solas. “He’d know what’s to be done with ye.”

“Standin’ orders’re if the Wolf appears we politely ask him refrain from stoning us to statues and send him to the Lady,” the elf said. “She’s them only one as can throws him off a mountain if she pleases.” His brown eyes narrowed. “Which she might.”

“She lives on top of the mountain,” Dwennen added. “Not a hard shove needed, if she’d a mind to toss ya.”

Solas glanced from one face to the other, the hall was long and thin. There was no one behind them, no one else at all. “You are Inquisition?”

“Maker’s Breath!” the elf laughed. “You imagine that, Dwennen? He thinks we’re heroes, he does!” He shook his head. “No, no, Sir Fen. I’m a slave from southwest ‘Vinter. The Lady snatched me bacon from the fry some six months back. Dwennen’s too. Was on the road to some hoity toity high flutin’ meetin’ in Solas to discuss the _Dalish_ problem. Meetin’ secret they was. Didn’t want to bring me, but the Lady see? She didn’t mind me there. Splattered Magister Marionette’s cranials all over the walls, did the same to all six of others come to the hotel. You served...” the elf trailed off, glancing at his companion.

“Magister Lennox’s apprentice, Dorfal,” Dwennen said. “The Lady took the slaves who wanted freedom home with her. Most of us decided to stay on, but she found ways to return the others to their families. The rest signed up with the Underground, robbing slave markets and freeing slaves off the plantations.”

“Turns out I’d some small magics,” the elf said, pushing the oversized helm up off his nose. “So they was plannin’ to sacrifice me in a ritual. Divinations and divining and such, wanted to see the faces of their ‘menies. Elf blood, you know how it is, don’t cha? Sir Fen?”

Solas stared at them.

“I was trying for a smith’s apprentice position in Kirkwall when I got snatched off the docks,” Dwennen added. “Bennie here was born in Fereldan.”

“Den’rim, Mum tells me,” Bennie nodded. “Alienage born, ‘Vinter raised. Lord who as ran the hole we lived in snatched up the fam when I was five and quarters. Sold us off to Vint slavers. Me a bonesy scribbling back then so they stuck me in with Mum for a package.” His eyes went distant. “I ain’t seen the others since.” His lower lip trembled. “Leda, me sis, she had the magics too. Protectin’ her from the Circle, waitin’ for word on a Dalish clan comin’ within distance to the city. Them traders did, sometimes.”

“Lady promised she’d look for ‘em, Bennie,” Dwennen said.

“I couldn’t bother her with it,” Bennie swallowed. “Enough she went out to Magister Marionnette’s estates after, got me Mum and the others. The Lady’s busy. Lots of others got fam they missin’ too, Dwennen.”

“We get more mages round here, it’ll be easier,” Dwennen said. “Once construction finishes, we can focus on what’s important.” He clapped Bennie on his bony shoulder. “You’ll see, Benno.”

Bennie nodded, his leather nose protector flopping up and down off his helm.

Feeling rather overdressed in his elvhen armor, Solas tucked his hands behind his back. “Is there no guard posted to protect the eluvian from intruders?”

The pair glanced at each other.

“Only one with ‘luvian access be you, innit?” Bennie asked. “You got the key.”

Solas blinked, his secrets were spreading. The unexpected kept leaping up out of the dark to smack him hard across the face. He wanted to consider killing these two simply to limit the knowledge, yet he couldn’t and cursed his poor luck. Eirwen located the chinks in his armor, even when she herself refused to make use of them. A pair of ignorant young slaves with sympathetic backgrounds, who leapt for freedom when offered. No, he sighed. He could destroy them but he wouldn’t.

“Normally Belassan’s got guard. Some sort of… Dalish mage… outcast? No, his Clan planned on him seein’ the world as is what he said. They’re the Fenalen if ya please, stupid blighters is what Kirthen calls ‘em. Not _Fenalen,_ just daft brainless buggered blighters. Belassan’s not much for magery, just a sparky like me, but he can send a signal like nobody.”

“We sent the traditional,” Dwennen said with one finger pointing at the fire running up the wall. “We’re given the option to perform a tactical retreat or wait and see who comes out.” He jerked his thumb at his partner. “Bennie thought we should take the chance.”

“Lucky Dorlen ain’t here,” Bennie said. “He’s been on about putting a hammer through all them glass mirrors he can find.”

Solas winced.

Bennie sighed dramatically. “Lady says no. We’re nowhere near so drastic yet. Might compromise, though. Probably just move the mirrors somewhere real uncomfortable.”

“Lain face down on a lake bed, I say,” Dwennen said.

“That would be unfortunate,” Solas offered.

“Not so uncomfortable as in the middle of a volcano!” Bennie cackled.

“On the tippiest tip of a mountain peak with no safe landings,” Dwennen answered.

“Plunge down several thousand feet they would!”

“Amusing as imagining my eventual demise may be, I’ve come to treat with your Lady,” Solas said. “Will you two do me the honor of suggesting directions?”

Dwennen gave him a hard look. “He’s a polite wolf.”

“If he planned to kill her, pretty sure we’d be statues like the Qun-Qun,” Bennie said. “Though I aspected more growly bits ‘n teeth.” He gestured to his head. “Tufts maybe on them ears. Got some large-y canines, extra size? You hidin’ ‘em with the magicks?”

“I am an elf, not a wolf,” Solas said.

“I knows that _now_ ,” Bennie sighed. “Still, them stories Belassan tells always makes ya sound fierce and here you are just _tall_.”

“Hethallin’s taller,” Dwennen said.

Bennie shook his head. “He is!”

“Diet,” Dwennen said.

“Would I be as tall if I got three squares n’ all the cheeses and meat, you think?”

“I wouldn’t for certain,” Dwennen replied, patting his stomach. “We’ll take you through town, Sir…” he glanced at his friend, “Fen?”

“Solas is preferable,” Solas said.

“I ain’t callin’ you that!” Bennie cried. “I was gon’ die at Solas!”

_The irony in that is rather significant,_ Solas thought. Either fate aligned itself against him, or whoever made this particular assignment had a wicked sense of humor. “As I doubt it shall matter, you may refer to me however you wish.”

“Sir Fen,” Bennie said immediately. “You ain’t no Fenalen, but that’s probably best.”

“He’s trying to destroy the world, Bennie,” Dwennen said. “He’s probably a sight and a half worse than all the Fenalen combined.”

“The Lady says our lives’r too valuable to throw ‘way on foolishness,” Bennie said. “Fight not any oldies we sees, unless they tryin’ to kill us presently and not abastractical-like. Peace talks be peaceably acceptable.” He gave Solas a once over with his brown eyes. “We’ll takes ya out the back way to the path, you got to walk it if you want to reach the Lady.”

“Serannas,” he murmured.

“You don’t gots to thank me,” Bennie scratched his neck. “Is orders, it is. Besides, safer than tryin’ to stop ya, innit?”

Solas sighed, both were true and far more reasonable in approach than he might’ve expected. Though, perhaps, he ought to. Eirwen had always been logical, driven toward strategy and tactics rather than emotion. She cared for her people, and would not spend their lives recklessly. Perhaps she trusted in his restraint also. Did not yet believe him the sort of monster who would attack those who did not threaten him. Mythal might have come through the eluvian, though she’d no need to and Dirthamen lacked the key. He arrived by some other means. Due to the lack of panic and worry, the people here might not even be aware of his presence. “You’ve my thanks regardless.”

Bennie jerked his head, and turned down the long narrow hallway in a direction leading away from the door. “Follow us then.”

Solas nodded.

Cole followed at his heels, invisible to the other two. “They are kind.”

“So it seems,” Solas replied softly.

“They’re not afraid of you, Solas. She’s not afraid of you either, though…” Cole trailed off. “Independent. Sovereign. Free.” He shook his head. “I sense her, but—”

“But?” Solas asked.

Cole hurried forward. “She is different now. Distant, her emotions jumbled. All twisted into pieces, the places mismatched. Sorting through the puzzle, looking for her name. A named name without a purpose. What will she be called? Patient. Painless. Innocent. The missing pieces fitted into place, whole and wholesome. Shadow freed. She feels like she is… me?”

“I’ll kill Dirthamen,” Solas hissed.

“She wouldn’t like that,” Cole said.

“I do not care to consider her feelings on the subject,” Solas replied. "They may be dealt with after."

“She is them and they’re her. It isn’t like the Well. Not binding or bound, but blended.”

Solas gritted his teeth. Cole did not need to explain nor justify the process of the foci providing ascension to a younger elf. He’d seen the outcome with Ghilan’nain. What had been down now could not be undone. Yet he might still manage some aid for her between everything and his plans. _The madness in allowing one so young and so separate to even attempt such a joining._ He could not understand why Dirthamen would consider the option… would risk it, even when the other Evanuris had nothing to lose. _She woke him. Is that how she captured his attention so quickly?_ Mythal and the others, they seemed drawn to her. Wanted to use her in their plans. Mythal used her for a pawn, Dirthamen sought to elevate her to a player, and he did his best to avoid her. _A process I fail miserably at, as I seem to with all else._ Despair clouded his eyes. Events moved and he’d yet to catch their flow. The old world rose all around him, creeping from the shadows to disrupt carefully laid plans. Plans within plans whose paths he could neither sense nor trace.

“Evanura,” Cole murmured.

_Yes,_ Solas thought bitterly. If she’d gone into the foci and remerged whole, hale, mostly sane, and blended with the power hidden inside then she was indeed Evanuris now. In fact, if not in name. _I drove her to this. I should have known the lengths she might go to. I who was supposed to know her best, predict her best. I should have foreseen it._ He left her wounded, lost in desperation. A desire to save that which she loved coupled with an intense drive to challenge and overcome the impossible. She found purpose in spirit and then again in a rather literal fashion when she unearthed Dirthamen from where he slumbered. The unaccounted piece on the board, moving in blitzkrieg, but not playing in accordance with any rules he knew. Applied rules set aside in favor of… he worried his lower lip as they stepped through another small door into the fading sunlight.

A courtyard spread before him, a marble walkway and a field full of flowers ringed by hedges bursting with starflowers. Trees twisted up at the edges of the park, meticulously grown together so their trunks and branches interwove together into a flowering arch. Vibrant blue roses sprouted from between lush, waxy green leaves. He recognized the architectural style, like that indoors this garden once belonging to June. Built off the Evanuris’ love for circles, unending cycles he’d called them. All his floor-plans mirrored the constant rotation of clockwork cogs built into machines to last ten thousand years. Cyclical labyrinths rather than squares.

His eyes moved to a winding path of polished marble and a pool at the park’s center. A cylindrical ivory fountain stood alone in the waters. Surface ringed with sheets of ice like a lake frozen in winter. The warm air burst about in, the flash freeze contradicted in the midst of spring. Beneath the ice, he saw flowing water. They shone a pure, brilliant blue. The liquid glittered, shifting beneath the protective layer of ice with a life of its own. It slurped, syrupy off the fountain’s edges. The statue at the center, a woman whose hand lay across a bloody breast stretched her second into the sky.

His breath caught.

A carved diamond formed of pure ice spun slowly in the air above the ivory fountain, an internal liquid core shimmering with a pure sapphire light. It dripped with the light, as it did, they crystallized, and fell down into the fountain. Pure, shining blue waters flowed over the fountain’s spouted edges, rushing into the pool through thin gaps in the ice.

No, he realized, not water.

_Lyrium._

The lyrium funneled through pipes beneath his feet, feeding the massive palatial tree at his back.

“The Lady’s Heart,” Dwennen said, he glanced over his shoulder. “You ever seen the like, Sir Fen?”

“I… yes,” he said quickly.

Bennie snorted.

Solas sighed. “It has been some time.”

“Bet it has at that,” Dwennen said. “You should ask Hahnral to tell you the story.”

Quietly, Solas nodded. “Perhaps I shall, should the opportunity arise.” He’d no intention to allow his mask to slip any further, though control of the situation seemed to flee from from his grasp with each passing moment. He wondered if Mythal knew, and decided not to doubt it. Little slid past her notice, even in her half life and fragmented death. She’d recovered her power, though he was not certain she’d returned an ally. Perhaps an enemy, perhaps a neutral party. In the end, they all had their own goals. He’d been foolish and sentimental to ever believe otherwise. His teeth grit as they curved the pond and exited beneath the arch on the park’s far side. He followed them up the stone path, his eyes moving to the jagged line of mountains protecting the Samahl Valley. Together, their gray-white peaks speared up into the blue-violet sky. The one he supposed they were headed for loomed closest, larger than the rest.

He took comfort in the shade, in the small trees dotting the path on either side. This area isolated from the fields and woods to the north, separate and abandoned. Well, abandoned except for the ravens and crows moving in the branches overhead. They watched him with a keen intelligence, too keen to be animal. All signs the Brotherhood arrived ahead of him.

_Too late,_ he thought. Always, always, he arrived too late.

Each time he had been so sure, yet it all led to mistaken assumptions and poor decisions. The path to the future lay before him tangled up in the machinations of his equals. His elders, in truth. Mythal intimated there was much about Dirthamen he’d never learned of, and he wondered why she had not told him of this in ages past. Perhaps she did, he thought. Perhaps he forgot. Perhaps, perhaps, the world built itself on perhaps, maybe, and might be. The truth lay plainly in the dirt and the mountain snow.

He could sit still no longer. Yet, he also could not act. Instead, he dragged himself through the mud. Filled with indecision, doubt, and self-recrimination. Where the others moved freely, he found himself cautious. He had trapped them in the eluvian, had he not? Trapped them, consigned them to an eternity of torture. A fitting punishment now proving to be no punishment at all. Dirthamen freed easily from where he’d slumbered, avoiding the punishment by avoiding the trap. Who could say if his actions held true for the others. Had Andruil and Falon’din also predicted him? What of Sylaise and June? Ghilan’nain? Elgar’nan? Were the only ones he punished their followers and the innocents trapped in the Golden City? Those between places or in the Fade when the Veil rose? Had he saved anything? Or merely destroyed?

His fist clenched. _Dirthamen will have those answers._

Dirthamen who must be bound by a Conclave, by rules to buy Solas time and prevent the chaos of a war between Evanuris from spreading. Eirwen must be contended with as well. Eirwen who once swore she would prove to him the world was worth saving. Yet she’d done so by aligning herself with monsters.

Solas sighed. _I must relearn how to open my mind._

 

***

 

The black haired elf leaned over Independence, his lips twitched into a smile. “I’m Harel.”

Her head tilted, eyes following him. Strange. Upright. Perpendicular. “I’m horizontal.”

Harel grinned. “You’re lying down.”

She turned her head and found the black cloth? beneath her. A strange round object gripped in one hand. On the bed? She hadn’t started on the bed. Had she? She looked up at him. “I am.”

“Ghilan’nain began this way too,” Harel offered.

Ghilan'nain, yes. A small elven female with long white hair and the collection of silver horns she wore for a crown twining off her forehead. Silver strands twined in elaborate braids, a long body, and dainty cloven hooves. Noted for her scientific accomplishments and forward thinking. A crafter of flesh and spirit, moulding Andruil’s monsters. _No!_ Goddess of the Dalish. Mother of the Halla. Who pulled the Dalish aravels across the Marches. _No!_ Both, and neither, all at once. Real and not. Legend and not. Respect the legend, beware the person, culture and context distinguished yet inseparable. Gently, she lay her fingers against her forehead. Hot. Hot, and cold. Her mind focused on the moment, not those speeding past in the pasts. The triple pasts, the past beyond the past which lay behind the curtain. _Harel,_ she remembered Harel. He was a friend, and an enemy. “Who am I, Harel?”

He sat down next to her. “You will remember soon.

“I can’t call myself Independence, can I?”

“Revas, then,” Harel suggested.

“Revas is Freedom, that’s not quite right. Independence is process and purpose, its change. White Snow,” she blinked. “Eirwen.” A smile spread across her mouth as she grinned. “My name is Eirwen Lavellan, Eirwen Lavellan of Clan Lavellan.”

“So, you remembered your name,” Harel chuckled. “You may wish a new one to go by.”

She frowned. “The Lady, isn’t enough?”

“True names are to be safeguarded,” he said. “Hiding the links to your past protects all those you care for.”

“I won’t forget who I am,” Eirwen murmured. “I’ll call myself Eirevas. Revwen seems too on the nose.”

“There’s always Hellathwen,” Harel said. “You’ve time yet before it will be necessary to face Dirthamen and Fen’Harel, think on it all you like.”

She nodded, looking down at her hands. _Eirevas, White Freedom._ Her fingers clenched into fists. _Revwen, The Lady in Blue and White. Freedom Snow._ Her lips twitched. _Hellathwen, Snow’s Noble Struggle._ Fen’Harel was the Dread Wolf. Falon’din was Friend of the Dead. Their names symbolized what they meant to their people and were… digs, all digs at each other too. Signs of community and culture, and jokes. “Maybe I should ask someone else to name me.”

“Ei’ura,” Harel said. “White Lady.”

Eirwen lifted her head. “Ei’ura?”

His mouth cut upwards. “Ire.”

“That was my nickname,” she giggled. “I like Ei’ura. Eirwen combined with Evanura. Evaeirwen doesn’t sound as good.”

“Nor does Wenura,” Harel agreed.

“Evawen?” She wrinkled her nose. “No.”

Harel chuckled. “Ei’ura.”

“I don’t want to be your master,” she said abruptly with a sudden realization. “I want to be your friend, and the other Harel’s too.”

“I’d like to be your friend, Eirwen Lavellan,” Harel said.

“You should be free to choose where you want to be,” Eirwen added.

He smiled. “Harel and I watched you when you were Inquisitor. We were not alone, many elvhen wandered from across Thedas to see you.”

She tilted her head, wishing for her more knowledgeable self to struggle back to the surface. “Me?”

“Yes.” His hand rubbed his mouth, his eyes moved over her face. “I see, Independence and Command. The shadows are opposing concepts to spiritual counterparts.” He grinned. “Banal’ras indeed.”

“Not Solas,” she considered the name. The hint lay there in her memory. Solas, Sulevin, and Dirthamen were more recent, and someone else too. _Suledin._ “Not just the Brotherhood?”

“No,” he said.

“Huh,” her eyes went to the ceiling. “The Inquisition.” Her heart froze. “My…” Her right hand went to her left and it was there, solid. “Why is it back?”

“The foci restored your mortal body when you were remade.” Harel tucked his legs together before him and crossed his ankles. “You’re elvhen now, Evanuris. None who follow the old ways could deny you now.”

“I don’t want it!” she snapped. “I want to be me.”

“Interesting,” Harel said.

Eirwen sighed and her fingers went to her face, searching her cheek for the waxy scar cut over her eye. That too was gone. Her eyes fell, and she sniffed. A strange sensation welled up in her stomach, unnerving and hot. Wet drops bubbled on her lashes. Tears, she remembered. “The flaws and imperfections, they’re what make…” she trailed off, and straightened her shoulders, “what made me, me.”

“What you’ve lost does not define you, da’len,” Harel said.

Her eyes rose. “They’re mistakes, my mistakes.”

“The wounds are gone.” Harel tilted his head, eyes closing as he smiled. His hands went behind his head. “The failures remain.”

“Wounds in time can never be undone,” she murmured, fingers running over her cheeks. Smooth cheeks, soft skin. All the small flaws, the mortal flaws stripped to bare her essence. Her mouth pulled into a tight line and she extended her hand. Moisture rippled in the air, ice crackling down the length of her arm. “I suppose you’re right.

Harel’s black eyes studied her. “Ruler.”

“Rebel,” she answered.

“Both,” he said.

“When we win, we must rule,” Eirwen sighed. “Rule while rebelling, but taking territory requires conquest and command.” Her frozen fingers pushed up her hair, long silver-white strands falling behind her ear. A catalogue of spells rose behind her eyes. Old and new, but all hers. The first belonged to the followers of Falon’din, those who prepared for war and battle. She glanced at him. “I’ll need an army.”

“You’ll have one,” Harel said.

Slowly, she pushed herself upright. The world swung dizzily, and glancing down she saw bare milk-white skin. Down her chest to her hips and her.. feet? “I need clothes.”

“I was wondering if you wanted them,” Harel said. “Dirthamen left some in the closet.”

“Closet?” she rolled the word on her tongue, head turning to see where his finger pointed. On the far side of the room, a large black dresser stood next to another tall boxy object with doors. “I see, a closet.”

“You’re doing well for your first few minutes,” Harel said. “Ghilan’nain took three days to stand, then fell six times.”

“I’m Dalish, we adjust faster,” Eirwen replied absently, swinging her legs off the end of the bed. “There is a bomb in the Veil.”

Harel’s brows rose.

Slowly, she stood. Her upper body rolled forward, then back. Her arms extended out, catching her balance. Legs trembling unsteadily beneath her, she tried to straighten. Catalogued the names of her pieces. Waist. Thighs. Knees. Calves. Ankles. Feet. _Yes._ Hesitantly, she took a step forward. Her balance swung, ungainly. Right leg went out beneath her. Her body fell forward. Left foot landing hard on the wood. Body swaying, she held herself still. Arms akimbo, hands flapping.

“One foot in front of the other.”

“I know,” Eirwen muttered.

“Would you like me to find you clothes?” Harel asked.

She frowned. “No.”

Harel lifted his hands. “As you wish.”

“I need to locate my balance,” Eirwen said, her jaw set. “It’s in my center.”

Harel laughed. “I’ll enjoy telling Dirthamen and Falon’fen of this later.”

Her brow furrowed in concentration. Moving her right foot forward so it touched her left, she dropped as her weight came forward with it. She crouched with her knees half bent, arms stretched out on each side like a bird. _Bird,_ her mind twitched. _Eae?_ _Aea?_ Subtle distinct difference in syllables, the difference between Dalish elvish and Ancient Elvish. “You’ve been speaking in elvhen.”

Clapping, Harel flopped sideways on the bed. “Well done, da’eae.”

“I’m not small,” she answered in Lavellan elvish, her tongue shifting to shape the words with a guttural roll. Accent softer. She straightened. “Or a bird.”

“The bird wishes to escape their cage and fly free, Independance,” Harel said.

Body tipping sideways, Eirwen forced her spine rigid. “I was born free,” she lifted her head, “I refuse to be caged.”

“Power is a cage.”

“And a key,” she replied. “Powerlessness forces dependence. Power provides options when the world refuses to give way.”

“The power to make someone listen?” Harel asked.

“People can’t be made to do anything,” Eirwen said. “Power offers up the opportunity to convince them you’re worth listening to. Whether as a persuasion, a threat, or an action, you’ve the means to get results.”

Harel chuckled. “You’ll be an interesting one to serve, Ei’ura.”

“Einura?” She shook her head. “Your version is best.”

“Serannas.”

“Ei’ura,” she tasted the name. “White Lady. Wenura. Snow Lady.” She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Harel stretched across the bed. His cheek rested against his hand, watching her with inscrutable black eyes. “We’ll need to call a Conclave.”

“Focus on walking first, Evanura,” Harel said.

“You don’t need to serve me,” Eirwen said, unsure how to turn. “You’re free to go.”

His brows rose. “And if Harel and I choose to stay?”

She nodded. “So long as that’s your choice.” Her brow wrinkled, studying the patchwork of spirit. The soul lain across the soul, blended, melded, and bound. An old work. “You could be Evanuris yourself.”

His black eyes glittered. “True enough, but my time as ruler is long over.”

“If you say so.” She paused. “What once was could rise again.”

“What is lost is lost, never to return,” Harel said. “We work to save what remains. Falon’fen will learn this one day.”

"True, nothing can ever be the same even when we return to what was." Eirwen tapped her toes on the wood, testing her weight on the smooth boards. The air was… cold. How long had it been since she was cold? She didn’t remember. Her eyes moved to the small bumps rising on her smooth alien skin. _Goosedown? Gooseflesh!_ She tilted sideways, noting how her ankles rotated with the movement. _Falon'fen. Friend Wolf._ “You mean Fen’Harel.”

“Solas,” Harel said.

“Solas?” the name echoed on her lips. “Solas.” Happiness, joy, and great sorrow lingered in the lilting notes.  A face swam before her eyes. Blue eyes, smooth high cheeks, a small scar on his brow, unusually broad and strangely tall. Bald. She remembered blinding pain in her left arm, shooting up through her bones. Nerves on fire, skin melting away to ash. Surrounded by statues once alive, shaped as Ghilan’nain’s dragon-men. “That name is painful.”

“I’m sure, da’eae.”

Slowly, she lifted a foot. “Is it important?”

“You must decide,” Harel said.

Her nose wrinkled, and she hopped on one foot. “Am I still me if I don’t remember?”

“A good question.”

“Hmm,” her teeth ran over her lower lip. “Experiences are the sum of a person, their formation and foundation.” She whipped her arms around and stumbled to face him. “Therefore, I must remember.”

Harel smiled. “Even if there is pain?”

“Even then,” Eirwen nodded. “I cannot act as myself if I am not me. I must be me in order to succeed.”

Drawing his knife from his belt, Harel rolled the black handle between his fingers. “When you say you must succeed, what do you mean?”

“A world…” she trailed off, the dream lingered there at the bottom of her stomach. She didn’t want to stop anyone, didn’t want to save. Wanted to provide. “I need to create a world where everyone no matter their birth or background has the opportunity to change their fate.”

“Ah,” Harel nodded, a smile cut up the side of his mouth. The polished black handle and silver blade tumbled between his fingers. Round and round the dagger went, rhythmic and entrancing. “I suppose offering the opportunity to be naked might entice a few to your cause.”   


“I don’t think that part matters so much,” she replied, then frowned. Nakedness didn’t matter to her, but there were people… friends… yes, friends who’d shriek in horror if they saw her now. “Nakedness matters to some people, and that’s why I need to remember.”

Harel smiled. “Who nakedness matters to?”

“No, customs and cultures.” Her eyes moved to the dresser. “A problem which I will deal with after I figure out how to get clothes.”

He clapped. “Priorities are good, Ei’ura.”

She wriggled her nose, lips pursing and rolling from one side to the other. “I don’t suppose you could…” the dresser seemed a long way off, “help me get there?”

Sheathing his blade, he slid elegantly to his feet. “Are you willing to accept my touching you or should I summon a female?”

She tilted her head. “Does it matter?”

“Not to me, but I am not the one lacking her memories.”

Puffing air to blow out her cheeks, Eirwen furrowed her brow. “At the moment, I don’t care. You’re here and you understand. So,” she took a hesitant and unsteady step forward, “I suppose we’ll see what happens.”

“Well,” he smiled. “I’m not one to turn you down. I’ve always enjoyed slipping a bee into the Evanuris bonnet.”

Eirwen held out her hands with a smile. “The prospect sounds entertaining.”

Harel took them carefully, gently. Slowly, he moved to her side and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "Stick with me, sunshine, and you'll learn a great many ways to get under their skin."

She nodded, accepting the option to lean on him. Nothing particularly exciting, she decided. Clinical instead. Nice without worrying about the prospect of more. For him, she was not catnip. "Pay attention to those at the bottom when learning to punch up."

"The seconds always have the best dirt," Harel said.

She grinned up at him. "Mentor me in your ways, hahren."

Harel chuckled. "When you ask so nicely, da'eae, how can I refuse?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harel is not harem bait, but I'm glad some of his personality got to shine through. You know, when he and Harel aren't creepily finishing each other's sentences. Fear and Deceit are the best mentors. Their canonical love interests are dead and buried, though they might find others. Who knows. However, you can be guaranteed he will hold this event over the heads of _everyone_ else. (AKA: all the guys who actually care about seeing Eirwen naked.) Harel's the guy who slips the dirty smut under the door in the powder room so all the old ladies spend the evening giggling over whomever's on his/their shit list this week.
> 
> It's nice to remember Eirwen can be super adorable when no one's looking, and able hold complex conversations while missing half her brain as she re-learns basic concepts like balance... while naked.
> 
> Solas... I just like torturing him.
> 
> Seriously though, why break the eluvians when you can move them to really unfortunate places? We may one day get to the intense amount of fuckery the elvhen and Evanuris get up to with each other. That would of course require getting them into the same room.


	33. Chapter 33

Bennie and Dwennen left Solas when they reached the mountain path, and left him to the climb. He must walk the path alone, they said. Looking up the long winding road to the peak, he did not doubt to some in the valley this counted as pilgrimage. The pilgrim’s path from Haven to Skyhold had become so in the intervening years, the Chantry faithful equating the Herald with Andraste.  _ Eirwen said she might deny it, but any she made served only as a test of faith. She’d not the freedom to decide. _ Here in the snow drifts, on the frozen ground, among the thick pine trees not so dissimilar to those in the Frostback mountains, he saw the trap once again.  _ I, in my foolishness, insisted she did. I who saw the specter of the Evanuris rising from the ashes, more mages lifted up as gods and demigods. _ Yet, as he climbed, he recalled that last walk through the mountains. In the shadows and darkness, fearful of her death, frightened all hope was lost. The Anchor lost. His plans once again in jeopardy, entrusted to a fragile mortal soul. He urged her then, in the moment, to become a symbol of hope. The champion and hero who became legend, seen as a demigod anointed by the Maker. True enough, he supposed. His Veil created the world, he’d gone to sleep, and she bore the mark of his power. Alone on the path, with nothing but the wind and snow for company, Solas laughed. “Why did I not see it?”

Silence was his only answer.

His eyes rose to the sky. “Why did I not see you, vhenan?” He set her on the path, transformed her into a younger version of himself. She stood against him, railing in anger against a cruel creator in a legend both true and untrue. The legends of the humans and their Chantry half-right, the Dalish half-right, and the world in a repeating cycle. He wondered, had he chosen to play this role or had it chosen him? Certainty felt distant, drifting from his grip. Age weighed him down, age, experience, and ignorance.

_ What is the purpose of pilgrimage, Solas? _ Eirwen’s voice drifted through his mind. He remembered her fingers on his cheek, the faint smile curving her lips.  _ We travel in solitude so we might reflect on the past and the path which has led us on our journey. _

He closed his eyes. Cole remained somewhere nearby, so he was not truly alone. Compassion decided he required solitude, and so he stood in silence. In that silence, Eirwen came to him like a ghost. Came as she always did. Watching him with her knowing blue eyes, dispensing the wisdom he’d not cared to hear during their time together. That understanding guided her down this path to the conclusion and the destination. The despair, and misery, and uncertainty in facing an enemy beyond her understanding. A path she walked when facing Corypheus, and he was a fool to believe she found the terrain unfamiliar.

_ You’re so caught up on names, vhenan. Tell me, does it matter if they were a god or a king? Does it matter if the gods are real? Or, does it matter if they were not gods? I will tell you this, we can’t stop people from choosing to believe what they believe. That is outside our control. _

He had been so sure, so determined to bear the burden alone. Yet as each step carried him higher up the mountain, over frozen soil, rock, and packed snow, he grew less confident in his choices.

_ Names create expectations, but those expectations are not always correct. A servant is just as dangerous as a soldier in their own way. A Dalish or a city elf deadly as a chevalier. A slave can strike down a magister.  _

His breath came evenly, puffing from his lips into the air in a cloud of steam. 

_ If I were content with my lot, I’d be someone’s wife by now, perhaps someone’s mother.  _

He could hardly imagine her content among the aravels, traveling with the hunters and preparing their rituals, trading with the humans in the nearby towns for supplies. The Eirwen he remembered pouring over books and manuscripts, prodding him to teach her how to read those ancient scrolls written in elvhen as he studied collected knowledge from Tevinter. Leaning on his shoulder, her nimble fingers locating the words she didn’t know. The hunger in her eyes whenever she uncovered some forgotten knowledge or lost secret of their people. The way her arms wrapped about his neck in excitement, she’d invaded his space long before they ever began a romantic liaison.

_ We’d never have met. _

_ My life would have been easier, _ he thought.

_ Would that be a shame, do you think?  _

_ A very great shame indeed, vhenan. _

_ If we never met, you couldn’t regret it. _

Solas smiled.  _ I’d regret never being given the opportunity. _

_ Silly, _ she laughed.  _ Imagine if I never knew you. _

_ I cannot. _

His smile faded, cold skin smoothing into a grim line. Sorrow twisted in his stomach, he had not spent much time reflecting. Planning, yes, he’d done that. He’d remembered, twisted up and guilt stricken. Flagellated himself with the memories and the pain they brought with them. He had not reflected. He had imagined her as another’s love, another’s wife. Imagined how she might be happier, hoped even in jealousy. Hoped she might find some happiness. Yet jealousy rose whenever he heard word of the Inquisitor contemplating an arranged marriage, whenever he heard tell she met with some suitor, when stories of competitions for her hand among the noble houses of Fereldan and Orlais reached him. One suitor spun to another. The letters painstakingly copied by his spies and passed to his hand, correspondence written in prose and poetry.

Often, the letters and news were only gossip or games without any meaning, but that never halted the arrival of melancholy. He’d no right to care. He'd ended the relationship between them, vanished without a word, and when he returned insisted it was over. That it must be. He walked the din’anshiral, he planned to die. As a result of his actions she would most likely die with him.

_ How can you want to die when there’s so much to live for, Solas? _

Finding a large boulder sitting to the left of the path, Solas climbed and found a seat. The valley spread below him, though he was not yet even halfway up the mountain. He crossed his legs, hands settling on his knees. He saw the beginnings of farmland, the small houses and construction dotting the base of the mighty tree sprung in the center. To the east, the great eagles of legends circled. He suspected many more wonders were to be found here. The soft burn of magic thrummed through him, buzzing at his fingertips. The knowledge dawned on him slowly, at a crawl. He’d become so used to it during the war with Corypheus, but the moments came far less often and never were this expansive. Within this valley, the Veil was thin. The whole of the valley, in truth. A tiny pocket nestled inside a land filled with shadow. A land well within the territory of the Blight left untouched. 

No, he realized. No, it had been.

_ I would pay any price to save this world, _ Eirwen’s voice whispered.  _ Even if I must carve out my heart. _

Carve out her heart, metal clad fingers moved up his forehead, not metaphorical… perhaps literal. The two guards, they spoke of the garden’s mythical producer of lyrium, the Lady’s Heart. Mythal once spoke to him of a plan to cure the Blight. Blood magic, a blood sacrifice, a cleansing ritual she’d almost perfected but never implemented before her death. A counter to the weapon and the corruption Andruil brought with her from the Void. One he’d believed lost to the ages. Mythal… Flemeth… they could not have perfected it. She would have told him, would she not? Told him they knew a way to stop the Blight. There was a spell on the valley, a protection powered by… lyrium.

_ Who are you working with, vhenan? _

_ Who do you think? _

His eyes squeezed shut. He’d believed it to be the obvious culprit, the one before his very eyes but, no, not Dirthamen. There was only one in all the world with the knowledge Eirwen needed. Knowledge of the Veil, knowledge of where the elder Evanuris and his followers might slumber, knowledge of spirits, and knowledge of the Blight. His gut wrenched. 

_ Who do you think? _ the question repeated.

_ Mythal. _

_ Who else would it be, Solas? Honestly, you’re not that clever. _

His jaw clenched, cheek muscle twitching. Aggravation settled in the pit of his stomach. Why had this Mythal fragment helped her?  _ Only Mythal can answer that. _ Her plans were as ever her own. Molars ground together, the pieces once again falling into place. Mythal, the architect behind Eirwen’s immortality, behind Dirthamen’s awakening, and this valley where magic almost flowed freely through a gap carved into the Veil.

_ Oh, Fen’Harel, _ Andruil laughed, _ when will you realize the eldest among us are worse than all the rest? The best hardly better than the monstrous. _

Mythal planned for vengeance. Mythal planned an end to the Blight. Mythal planned the restoration of the elvhen people. She fought to save every scrap and every possible soul like the once lost Urthemiel. The corrupted high priest rescued, safeguarded within the eluvian. Mythal was better and still she lied to him. Used him as she always had. All those before her were pieces on the board, even when she claimed to care for them; even when she did. 

His lips brushed the cool metal fingers on his gauntlets.

Why had Mythal sent him here? Why request he face temptation when he already hesitated? When he could not focus? Perhaps, she expected this meeting to reinforce the path he set himself on. He’d perform his duty as he always did, cut the final threads tethering him to Eirwen and move ahead with their plans.

His eyes closed, and he exhaled heavily.  _ Too many plans surround me, the knives sharpened in the shadows. I feel as if I am a puppet dangled on a string, hurtling toward an ending I cannot divine.  _ The world spun out of control. Looking on the valley, he had to wonder if Eirwen had always been so talented and he so blind. When he looked on what she accomplished in a span of months, he knew the truth. The banalvhen were not banal at all. There existed in them a capacity for greatness, greatness beyond any he previously imagined. Those whose world he sought to return allied against him, and Mythal asked he call a Conclave of Evanuris. A conclave which now included a modern elf. An elf she’d aided in rising to the ranks of his hated enemy. His love cast on the sacrificial pyre.

Solas laughed, the sound hollow and empty as it echoed down the mountain. “I may act in a thousand different ways, but all I do is feel sorry for myself.” Picking up a stone, he sent it spiraling into the open air. “I am tired of apologizing. I am tired of being tired.”

“If that is true, you may wish to attempt being yourself.”

His head jerked up, swung around, and saw Dirthamen squatting on the cliff above him.

Dirthamen’s golden eyes glittered. “Aneth ara, brother.” 

“I am not your brother.” Hand settling on his knee, Solas forced himself still. “Why are you here?”

Dirthamen shrugged. “One might wait for you until all the world sank into darkness, Shem’Harel, only to never see you arrive.”

“That is not what I asked,” Solas said.

A smile tweaked one side of Dirthamen’s mouth. Long white fingers pushed dark black strands behind his ear. They dropped and tugged away the fur mantle covering his shoulders, unbuttoning his collar, and his robe fell open. Twining lines of red vallaslin climbed both sides of his throat like ivy.

Breath caught in Solas’ throat. “You are wearing vallaslin.” The words sounded false as they left his lips, and yet the reality throbbed before his eyes. The blood ink thundered with magic. Where Solas had been weakened by the long sleep, Dirthamen stood flush with power. Not nearly strong as he’d been when Mythal gifted him her power, but strong enough. 

Dirthamen chuckled. “Your eyes do not deceive you.”

_ He may take her for a lover. _

Solas sighed. Mythal was correct, only one person could provide the strength Dirthamen required. That he was here, bearing those marks. “I see.”

Swinging his legs over the edge, Dirthamen settled on the snow. His hands rested on his knees. “I shall remind you, Shem’Harel. You were offered the opportunity and declined.”

“I…” he thought on Tevinter, of the colosseum, and the instability of Eirwen’s transition. He’d seen the necessity, and never thought to bear the marks.

“Your spell protects her from vallaslin being inscribed on her skin,” Dirthamen said. “It does nothing against another binding themselves to her.”

His mouth opened, then shut. He hated feeling like a landed fish, stunned and gasping for air.

“You never imagined one might,” Dirthamen continued. “In the old days, before they became a system to power empires, one bore the marks and bound themselves to another in order to ease the transition from spirit to flesh. An apprenticeship, of a kind.”

“You’ve taken her for an apprentice,” Solas said. “I hardly imagine the great Dirthamen bowing so low.”

“I’ve no need to worry over my pride, Shem’Harel,” Dirthamen replied, running a finger down his vallaslin marks. “The one who knows himself has no need for insecurity.” He chuckled. “As it happens, I am her apprentice; studying the ways of this mysterious new world.” 

“Ah,” the bitterness returned swiftly. "So, that is the tact you've taken. I suppose, she receives something for this _honor_?"

“In return, I offered her my considerable skills.” His lips twitched. “Everyone benefits.”

“Until you betray her trust when the better bargain arrives,” Solas snapped. “Drain her of her life, use your overwhelming experience to transform her into a puppet. You may enter into this bargain willingly, but only to the tune of your own advantage.”

Dirthamen studied him for a long moment, one brow rose. Then, he laughed. “You’ve lost a great deal over the years, Shem'Harel, but I am glad your taste for hypocrisy hasn’t changed.” He shook his head. “Nor your habit of mistaking the obvious for wise counsel.”

Solas stiffened, jaw clenching. “The fact your motivation is obvious does not change the outcome nor your manipulations of the situation.”

“We all work to turn events to our advantage, little brother.” He spread his hands. “You may wish to look in the mirror before you chastise.”

Solas' hands balled into fists, eyes flashing blue light.

A blue-white glow in Dirthamen’s irises batted away the spell; not that Solas expected his casting to take effect. “She is capable of making her own choices.”

“Uninformed choices!”

“Context will be provided soon enough,” Dirthamen said. “Events play out on the day she is able to clearly judge us both. You ought to put faith in our descendants, little brother.”

“You’ve not been awake long enough to lose yours,” Solas replied.

He shrugged. “You always did spend too much time moralizing over the actions of those beyond your control.”

Solas frowned, his knuckles drumming on his knee. Facing down Dirthamen should be more terrifying, the sense of creeping dread usually accompanying his presence... wasn’t present. If one were to divine his motives, they might suspect him amused. Solas knew better, knew him to be angry. Dirthamen remained at his most dangerous when he was pleasant. Yet not quite so dangerous as when he grew nondescript. The risks inherent in even conversing with one of the elder Evanuris were countless, especially he who specialized in the binding of body and mind. Dirthamen could slip in between with a word, with a thought, within the spaces between those thoughts and words. Change a meaning or make a promise, with none the wiser in the afterward. Well, not until the consequences followed. Where Falon’din’s agents rooted out sympathizers, Dirthamen’s watched and waited, followed and recorded. An unfortunate touch from either of the twins ended in entire cells or even cities decimated, murder and mayhem spreading from host to host like a virus. Both preferred to attack a problem sideways. Where Falon’din or Andruil distracted, the other two flanked. The irony of requiring time to collect his thoughts when his thoughts themselves might betray him. 

“There is a cure for the Blight,” he said at last.

“A cure existed long before the fall,” Dirthamen said. “The issue is the contagion, the speed of contamination, and the power required to reverse corruption.” He chuckled, his head tilting. “If we could not withstand small amounts of Andruil’s poison, how might we battle the Forgotten Ones?”

Solas stared at him. “This is what you consider small?”

“Oh, yes,” Dirthamen smiled.

“You unleashed it!”

“You have never asked why,” Dirthamen said. “You have been content with power all your life, Shem’Harel. You consider the seeking of it a personal failing, a base impulse. You see civilization as corruption, and never ask what that power might be used for.”

“What else?” he spat. “For your own self-aggrandisement! You who bid our brothers build you the statues and monuments littered across Thedas. You bound our people into slavery, using the marks you bear now to funnel power to fuel the Empire! All to please your need for praise! You damned the world for your egos!”

Dirthamen laughed.

Solas stiffened, he could hear the chorus somewhere in the distance. The chattering mockery of ravens, their caws rising on the wind. He no more than a small child scrabbling in the snow for toys at their feet.

“Your entire methodology creates the world you abhor, brother,” Dirthamen said as he held both hands out as fists. “You encourage lawlessness on the one hand,” he rolled over his palm and held it out, “but condemn tyranny on the other.” He opened his right and repeated the motion. “You demand self-sufficiency but decry those who do not hold your views and values. Should they be fool enough to follow you, you condemn their dependence.” He smiled. “Our Renan sees what you do not, sees the path to power is the only way to bring about her vision for a better world.” His eyes narrowed. “Fear of your opinions has stalled her long enough.”

_ Renan,  _ Solas thought.  _ Voice.  _ Dirthamen’s voice?  _ No, she is the voice of a new age. He has named her Speaker, the one to head any Conclave which might be called. _

“Rules matter only when they are accepted, Shem’Harel,” Dirthamen said. “There is no intrinsic difference between my blood and that of our mortal cousins. One life does not necessarily matter more than another.”

“So you would pontificate,” Solas snapped. “You believe I have forgotten the blood on your hands, Dirthamen? Those innocents you dragged from their homes and murdered in the streets, those whose minds you fractured to hide your secrets, whom you broke and bloodied searching for my rebels.”

“There are no innocents in war, Fen’Harel,” Dirthamen said. “None exist when a people are in rebellion, when the line between friend and foe blurs. If you did not wish for their deaths, you should not have encouraged them.” He shook his head. “Instead, I suggest you to honor their sacrifices. Trust they understood what you asked of them, and gave their lives willingly for the dream you promised.”

“They were not soldiers, Dirthamen!” Solas cried. “They were farmers, shopkeepers, servants, and slaves! They wished for lives free of your madness, where they were not forced to worship at your altar!”

Dirthamen sprang to his feet in a single fluid motion. He stood there, swathed in his mantle and his long black robes. A shadow on the hill, framed by the endless white snow and granite leading up the mountain. “You are ever the same, da’fen.”

Solas stood and spun about to face him. “You’ve not changed either! You never listen!” 

Pity flashed through Dirthamen’s golden eyes. “You say rules and organizations corrupt, yet demand those same rules for those you view as innocents. You use those innocents in your schemes. You expect protected status, then attempt to use this supposed protected status to gain an advantage. I take notice of the servants, and you call me cruel for closing the loophole you sought to exploit.” He spread his hands. “Ir abelas, little brother, if I do not lend your complaints serious weight.”

“You would make her like you,” Solas said, his voice soft.

“She already is,” Dirthamen replied. “Her people understand the cost and consequences of rebellion and revolution far better than you ever will, Fen’Harel. For all your navel gazing, the People are the ones who bore the weight of your decisions while you carry nothing but the guilt.” A wry smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Is it any wonder they loathe you?”

Solas’ eyes narrowed. He wanted to deny it, but the barbs stung. The countless conversations he’d carried across Fereldan and Orlais with the other members of the Inner Council returned to him. His pain, his misery, and his regrets boiling over as they traveled through war torn lands. The people’s lives embittered and embattled, all as a result of his foolish actions. Pain they ought never to have born. This should’ve been over three years past, five years. They moved on eight now. In the world of quicklings, eight years felt far longer than eight hundred. “Your aim is true as ever, Dirthamen.”

“Heed me then, Fen’Harel,” Dirthamen said. “A war between our siblings to reestablish their power shall look very different from one where they are already entrenched.” His eyes narrowed. “There will be no opportunity for restraint. All your vaunted mercy will buy is more bodies for the pyre.”

“This world will end, Dirthamen,” Solas snapped. “Our people will be restored. The war you speak of will never occur.”

“Ah, brother,” Dirthamen smiled. “No war between us ever ended, it was merely delayed. You may change the field, change the tools, change the people, but the war continues.” His arms crossed. “You must decide if you will be ally or enemy.”

“Eirwen will—”

“Be my ally,” Dirthamen said. “That cannot be changed. No matter how you wail, gnash your teeth, and struggle against the weights of destiny, the scales are measured against you.” His smile widened. “However, I find myself at a crossroads.” His eyes glittered, the way they always did when a plan fell into place. “You see, Shem’Harel, Champion and Protector are poor roles for me. Poor roles, in truth, for all those in my employ.”

_ No, _ Solas thought, horror seeping through him.  _ No, no, no, no. _

“They were, however, once a specialty of yours.”

He took a step backwards, finding the boulder’s edge.

“After all, someone must stand between Renan and Andruil, Ghilan’nain, and Sylaise.”

Laughter choked in his throat. “And Falon’din?”

“Leave him to me,” Dirthamen said.

_ Tension, _ Solas thought. He’d no desire to fight Falon’din or the others, but he had calculated the possibility into his plans. “I’ve not agreed yet. We are not allies.”

Dirthamen shrugged. “You will.”

Solas frowned.

“Necessity makes strange bedfellows, brother,” Dirthamen said. “However, your weakness has always lain in your loyalty and devotion. You care far too much about those around you to be successful in my business. Too many scruples.”

“I am not—”

“You’d not torture a child before their parents in order to induce a confession,” Dirthamen said. “You’ve no stomach for brutality, Fen’Harel. You never have. You're a dutiful son of Mythal, you believe in justice, injustice, and vengeance.” He leaned back. “You save those who cannot save themselves.” He raised a brow. “After all, what else is that slow arrow of yours for?”

Solas closed his eyes, stomach churning. His fingers clenched into fists. How was it that Dirthamen always broke his attempts at playing monster. He wanted to be, deserved to be. His actions were monstrous, though he’d believed them ultimately for the good.

“Mythal woke me because she knew I’d do what you cannot,” Dirthamen said. “You may wish to trust her judgement; though fractured and limited it may be.”

He swallowed. The whole situation felt like another nightmare, more so than the one presented by this shadow world. A nightmare he desperately wished to wake from, and knew to be all too real. His mouth went dry. “You are not suggesting I join you? Surely not, Dirthamen. This is a jest.”

“Hardly,” Dirthamen laughed. “It is not me I ask you to aid.”

“Eirwen,” Solas breathed. “You… no, I cannot do that.”

“Come,” Dirthamen waved his hand. “Whatever you decide, I’ve prepared a rousing game from the old world to remind you of the self you’ve forgotten. Be kind, brother. Do not let all my preparations go to waste.”

Solas watched Dirthamen disappear up the cliffs, and knew he’d no choice but to follow. Dirthamen could not be allowed to win. He could not allow him to distract from his goal. Nor threaten him with the specters of the others, nor a war certain to engulf the entire world before the Veil fell. Eirwen… he swallowed.  _ You would abandon her to stand against the Evanuris alone? _ The question hung there in his mind, heart stilled by a sudden foreboding. 

_ This is the path she chose, _ the more rational side of him answered.  _ Let her face them, what interest would they take? She will die, one way or another. Why should the when matter? _

_ No, _ Solas shook his head, dropping off the boulder. His sabatons crunched on the snow, ice rolling and cracking beneath his weight.  _ I cannot aid her, I cannot leave her alone. I am stuck, and yet I know the answer. Know it just as Dirthamen does. _ He drew a deep breath, a wry smile tugging at his mouth.  _ Void take the bastard, he is far too clever. Were I in his place, I’d never consider such a compromise. _ And, he supposed, therein lay the key to Dirthamen’s success. His ability to see past emotion and prejudice to unlikely allies, so he might follow the best path to his goals. He had not an ounce of sentimentality. As Solas began the climb after Dirthamen, he found himself envious. 

He wished he could face the prospect of an alliance without revulsion or disgust, see it as something other than a betrayal of principle with Eirwen trapped in the middle. The field shifted, he did not entirely understand how, but it had. All choices pointed the direction his heart wanted to pursue and duty demanded he abandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, Merrill cleansed the Blight from the eluvian. She learned how to from the demon bound at Sundermount, and that demon likely dates back to at least the fall of Arlathan. So, someone here knows. Probably multiple someone's, and Bioware's just a little lazy about what they let slip. Still, makes for some fun worldbuilding. Besides, we've also got Alistair's "get out of the Calling jail free card" and his mother getting cured of the Blight. So, the setting doing earth shattering revelations and just breezing over them is a thing. (It's not necessarily a good thing.)
> 
> Solas ships Solavellan, I can't stop him. Fair warning, he's not out of this triangle yet.
> 
> You can always count on Dirthamen to slap him around... a lot. I don't know what it is, but Solas tends to get tongue tied around Dirth. That may be because Dirthamen does the unexpected.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. ^_^


	34. Chapter 34

“How long are you going to be like this?”

Sensing his ex-wife’s shadow falling across him, Suledin smiled. Eyes closed, his head rested against the trunk. He settled in the grass, listening to the Clan pack up in the clearing below. Virlath was a large enough Clan, hosting five hundred souls. They’d a vested interest in moving quickly. News of the madness in Andoral’s Reach had spread, and as always Virlath fled whenever a hint of trouble emerged. They’d be gone in a few scant hours, perhaps less. Certainly less than it took for the fires to spread, or the smoke to climb high into the blue afternoon sky. “Aena.”

“Sumeil told me you went into town,” she continued sharply. “There’s a madness spreading there. Now, Keeper insists we must leave for the Summer passage.”

He opened an eye, a wry smile twitching on his lips. “Do you blame me for that, lethallan? Do you believe my trip into town drove the Chantry templars to murder, pillage, and burn Andoral’s Reach?”

Aena rolled vibrant green eyes, tossing a sheet of icy blond hair over her shoulder.  “I was a fool to worry about you, tel’lath.”

She was considered a clan beauty, and many a male elf might consider themselves lucky to have their marriage arranged with her. Unfortunate, then, she'd ended up with him. He was everything Aena thought she wanted, and everything she couldn't have. Physically, perhaps, but not with any eagerness. Not emotionally. She'd never forgiven him for Eirwen.

 _The beautiful want to be wanted, brother,_ Dirthamen always said. _They expect to be desired. You won't win points ignoring that singular truth._

Therein lay his problem, Suledin thought. He didn't want, certainly not in the way others expected him to. Beauty, external or internal, meant nothing to him. He closed his eyes, stretching one leg out across the grass. “If you keep calling me that, the eligible bachelors will think you interested in reviving our marriage, Aena. You’ve a life left ahead of you. Plenty of time to find a better fit for your preferences.”

The grass and dirt shifted under her feet, fabric a whisper around her legs.

He could track every inch of her in his mind if he wished, the way her form and physical body filled up the space. Know the length and distance between them. He never was aware of her in the way other males in the Clan were. He did not share Sulevin’s seductive predilections, nor his inclination toward physical intimacy. Suledin performed his duty and nothing else, he preferred distance.

“Keeper says you won’t be traveling with us.”

Suledin shrugged, listening to Sariel, A’tethlas, and Dirthellan shift in the branches overhead. A breeze rustled the leaves, flowing in cool off the mountains. When the Clan disappeared, they’d be free to journey in their elvhen forms. “I will meet you at the summit.”

“You are Tanassan!” Aena snapped. “You’ve a responsibility to—”

“The Clan has grown dependent on me,” Suledin cut her off. “I’ve assigned Sumeil to handle my duties in the interim until Sa’assan approves the selection.”

Aena knelt. “Tel’lath!”

He opened his eyes, watching Aena’s face swim into focus. He tolerated her attachment to a certain point, but their relationship began and ended with his physical body. Like so many wives from his past lives, she demanded more than he desired to give. More than he could. He saw in their eyes an expression not dissimilar to those of his worshipers. The desire for a prize to gratify their egos. The one he made special by his interest. _Fen’Harel never understood, we are as much objects and receptacles for their needs._ The people made their gods, created them from the fabric of dreams and imaginations, it worked no other way.

_Do you ever wonder what they were like, Suledin?_

_The gods?_

Little Eirwen smiled from the back of his mind, her chin resting on her knees, blue eyes shining in the firelight. _No, the people; who they were before they became gods._

“The Clan must prepare for the day I won’t be with them,” Suledin said. “I never planned to take a position of leadership.”

“Sathan, Suledin, you’re nearly thirty,” Aena said, crossing her arms. Her head tilted, expression exasperated. “You’ve many years left.”

He smiled. “Not so many as one might think.”

“Don’t run off like so many other fools in a mad attempt to kill the Dread Wolf, tel’lath,” she sighed. “No member of Virlath is a match for him. Even all together, we’d fail. Your Inquisitor walks the fool’s path. She best hope the Creators forgive her, hope Falon’din sees fit to grant her a fitting death. We must pray the gods return and deliver justice.”

Resting a hand on his knee, Suledin cast his eyes to the branches overhead and saw Sariel watching. Disgust in her beady black gaze. There’d been a time once when few called upon the gods for aid, their attention best avoided. Those of the surviving elvhen under his protection knew better than to risk his wrath by calling upon him for slights, trifles, and unworthy causes. Virlath adopted a more Chantry-esque view of their deities than other Clans. They believed their prayers might reach the gods ears and blessings fall upon them. His eyes narrowed. “The gods help those who help themselves.”

Aena shook her head. “They wouldn’t expect us to battle Fen’Harel alone. It isn’t foolish or cowardly to know when a task is beyond us, Suledin.”

He chuckled. “Small minds lead to small dreams, Aena.”

“There’s nothing wrong with small dreams!” she snapped.

“No,” Suledin agreed. “However, you can’t ask someone to be ordinary when they are not. There’s a difference between dreaming and being forced to content yourself with small ambitions.”

“Says the elf who refuses to be ambitious,” Aena growled. “You could be the Father of Bows if you wished.”

He sighed. “We’re not having this argument again, Aena.”

“Father of Bows is an achievable dream,” Aena said. “Killing Fen’Harel is not.”

He held her green gaze until she looked away. “I don’t plan on hunting Fen’Harel.”

Her fists rested on her knees, jaw clenching. “You’ve wanted revenge since word came about the Inquisitor. You think I haven’t seen you? Haven’t heard the rumors? I know your moods well enough! I know what they mean, tel’lath! You’ve declared everything except a blood feud. I wouldn’t be surprised if you did that too!”

“Jealousy is unbecoming,” he said.

Aena’s cheek twitched. “You needn’t say it, I know you wouldn’t go to similar lengths for me.”

“You don’t know what I would or wouldn’t do, Aena.” He kept his voice gentle, kinder than he might’ve been under different circumstances. “Whatever else she’s become, whatever else she becomes, Eirwen is my family.”

Emerald irises grew hard as long blond lashes fluttered. “The way I’m not.”

“Our marriage was political,” Suledin said. “You knew that.”

“I still hoped you might feel something after nearly ten years, tel’lath.”

He sighed. “Time isn’t the factor.”

“What is?” Aena asked.

She refused to look at him, and he couldn’t blame her. “I don’t know.”

Aena’s eyes closed, lips pursing.

“I can’t offer what I don’t feel, lethallan.”

She glanced at him sharply. “You never tried, lethallin!”

Suledin studied her, the corner of his mouth rising. Disgust flooded from above as several other ravens and crows landed in the branches overhead. They knew the time for action arrived. He held up a hand. “There are others in the Clan who can be what you need.”

Aena sank onto the grass, her eyes softening before they fell. Her hands rested in her lap. “I can’t explain it, Suledin, but after Arlas said you’d gone to Andoral’s Reach I knew something changed.” Her fingers curled into fists. “I feel like I’m never going to see you again.”

“I will be at the summit,” he said.

“I won’t see you again,” Aena replied softly. “Not the Suledin I know, the Suledin of Clan Virlath. There’s another side to you, a darkness. You’re going to let whatever slumbers in you loose, and that frightens me.”

“It should.” He rested his head against the bark, closing his eyes. There was only one fool in all the world who never feared his darkness, who saw excitement and adventure instead. Not by any manipulation on his part, he simply didn’t frighten her. Most mortals and immortals responded as Aena did, sensing the darkness and danger even if they could not explain it. They sensed power also. He aroused their darker impulses simply by existing, and they naturally fell in behind him. “I’m rather dangerous.”

Eirwen’s face appeared before him, small and round with big blue eyes. Legs crossed, hands planted on her ankles, leaning forward to peer into his eyes. _Are you dangerous to me?_

_Probably._

_Hmm,_ her head tilted thoughtfully, then rolled to the other side. _I want to see!_ Small fingers closed around his wrist, tugging him forward. _Show me!_

Aena glared at him. “Don’t get smart with me, Suledin.”

_Show me! Show me!_

_What do you wish to see?_

_Everything!_ Tiny fists wiggled before big blue eyes. _I want to see everything!_

 _I promise then,_ his hand landed on her head and ruffled her hair, _one day, da’elgara, I will show you everything._

“You should finish packing, Aena. Otherwise the Clan will leave without you.”

Her nails dug into her palm. “There’s nothing I can say to convince you?”

“Ir abelas, lethallan,” he said. “This path is fixed.”

Aena leaned forward. “You’re going to die!”

He chuckled. “We all must.”

“Creators!” she spat. “I’ll never understand what’s wrong with Lavellans!”

“Wed another then,” Suledin said with a smile. “I can make recommendations.”

Aena rolled her eyes. “I know, tel’lath. Of all your weird talents, the fact you excel at matchmaking and predicting marriages is the strangest.” Holding out her hands, she sighed. “Will I get married again?”

He gave her left palm a flick. “Seek out Fenlen Lavellan, you’ll have the opportunity at the Summit. There are three more chances awaiting you if this one is missed. Two Arlathvhens, and when the Clan weathers the winter in the marches.” His head tilted. “I suggest you don’t waste the first, or forget.”

“I won’t, Suledin,” Aena said. Grabbing hold of her wrist, her eyes fell to her hand. A faint smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. “Serannas.”

“Sumeil will be happy too,” he added. “Hers is closer than she realizes.”

Aena laughed. “Are you sure you’re not a mage? Or a Rivaini seer?”

“I’m Falon’din, of course.” His lips quirked. “The one who taught Sylaise to divine the path of fate so the People might read their destinies in the stars.”

“You’re such a blasphemer,” Aena sighed. “I won’t tell the Dirth’din’an, but you should watch yourself at the Summit. You know Falon’din is connected to death, not chance.”

“Death is chance, Aena,” Suledin said.

She stood. “I’ll remember your advice.” Her eyes swung to where the Clan packing up their belongings, the yurts taken down, and the aravels beginning to move out. “You shouldn’t joke about the Creators.”

“Humor rescues us all from the depths of despair,” Suledin said. “When you’ve learned to laugh at what frightens you, you no longer fear it.”

Her emerald eyes snapped back to him. “I’m not afraid of our gods!”

He smiled. “You should be.”

“Creators!” Aena’s jaw clenched, her fingers balling into fists. “At times like this, I’m glad we ended it.” She straightened, leaping to her feet. “May the Dread Wolf never haunt your steps! And, should he catch you, may Falon’din take pity. I pray he bears your foolish soul into uthenera.” She jerked about and stalked away, back toward her aravel. Disappearing into the crowd of elves, halla, and harts without a backwards glance.

Suledin covered his mouth, hiding his laugh. There were times over the past ten years when he missed Eirwen’s company, but never more than when dealing with the devout.

 _She should be more worried about finding a way through the Beyond herself,_ Eirwen’s voice filtered through his mind, leaning against his side. Her chin on his shoulder just as she did when they were children. _What will she do if Falon’din doesn’t come for her, do you think?_

Sariel drifted down from the branches and landed beside him. Her head swung up, studying him intently. “One of these days, someone might believe when you tell them the truth.”

“I did,” Suledin said, “and she did.”

Sariel lifted her shoulders in a bird shrug. “With or without Fen’Harel, _she_ was always going to. She is one of us.” She snorted. “Your ex-wife believing would be trouble.”

He sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t refer to Aena as my wife.”

“I agree she’s hardly worthy of the title, her sanctimonious prattle never ceases to get on my nerves and I came after the marriage dissolved.” Her head cocked, a wicked gleam in her eye. “I must ask though, my lord. Do your marriages in mortal form no longer count? Or shall we now list them as unfortunate necessities?”

“The latter,” Suledin said.

Sariel’s head bobbed. “We’ve all been asked to make uncomfortable compromises in this world, but Virlath’s devout idolatry is enough to set one’s teeth on edge.”

He glanced at her. “They are self-sufficient.”

“Not self-sufficient enough. Still, your policy of non-interference until post-mortem may be what saves them in the end.”

“I admit Lavellan breeds better candidates for the Feathered Court than Virlath,” Suledin said. “However, an overabundance of caution is by no means an unfortunate trait, especially in the current climate.”

“They do not seek to elevate themselves in your favor or distinguish themselves by their great deeds. They do not even chase glorious deaths in battle, they simply die. This generation are no more than mice skittering in the fields, my lord.”

He chuckled. “There is small courage and cleverness in avoiding the hawk’s talons.”

She sighed. “Where are we going when they leave?”

“There’s an undiscovered eluvian to the east,” he said. “An old one of Sylaise’s, outside the regular network.”

Spreading her wings, Sariel flicked her tail over the grass. “You plan to avoid the world roots for travel.”

“Whatever Mother has or has not figured out, I’d rather avoid alerting my siblings to the elga’vhen’alas or our mountain strongholds,” Suledin said. “You’ve received word from our followers in Tevinter.”

“Several are pleased you’re finally allowing them to clean house in Slaver’s Bay,” Sariel replied, watching the shuffle of elves packing up their camp. “Where are we going?”

“Sylaise and Ghilan’nain are both easily reachable, but Andruil was fool enough to get herself caught in Fen’Harel’s trap. I need to pull her out.”

“She’ll be hungry,” Sariel muttered.

Sariel never questioned his abilities, she was one of the few. He smiled. “Never fear, I’m not planning to feed her anything of mine.”

Sariel sighed heavily, fluffing her feathers. “I hoped I’d finally get to deliver Virlath’s Dirth’din’an into Andruil’s jaws, or maybe the Mother of Bows.”

“Best not,” he chuckled. “My beloved sister steals the knowledge, memories, and shapes of those she devours. Virlath’s priests know me. Personal satisfaction aside, they’d make for an unfortunate combination.”

“I’ll tell them to find some useless but deserving bottom-feeder, some slaver from a know nothing cartel,” Sariel sighed. “A pity the Melanada Vunin have begun snatching the nobility’s spoiled brats from their beds. I don’t want to risk competing over their candidate pool.”

“They’ve learned to work quickly,” Suledin said. “Have they moved into Tevinter yet?”

“No, not outside the city where Dirthamen tracked Eirwen,” Sariel replied. “They’ve taken to Orlais at large, and abducted several elder sons from Denerim.”

“I assume they will be returned in a better frame of mind, should they return at all.”

“If they do, they’ll engage immediately in patricide,” Sariel said. “Will Andruil attack you?”

Suledin shrugged. “She’ll try as she always does, and come to regret the attempt.” He smiled. “Attempted murder is her personal greeting.”

Sariel’s wings closed and she tilted forward, taking a few long strides forward before settling to watch the Dalish finishing their preparations. Her head tilted, then she sighed. “What is your plan?”

“A blitzkrieg is best, Fen’Harel either hastens to action or completely shuts down when overloaded,” Suledin said. “For our purposes, either will work. In the triad, Sylaise will go for Dirthamen and Andruil will chase the wolf.”

“And Ghilan’nain is certain all halla belong to her,” Sariel said. “Eirwen’s chosen shape and independent spirit ensures they remain natural enemies.”

“Ghilan’nain will turn her eye to reclaiming the Qunari first,” Suledin said. “I won’t forbid assassination in her case.” He shook his head. “Or, any of them in truth.”

Sariel cackled, there were few among the elder Elvhen who didn’t see Ghilan’nain’s rise as undeserved. A fool underestimated the young Evanuris, but she’d done little to build her reputation outside the fleshcraft. Her insatiable appetite and predilection for torture were legendary among his people. Now, those legends fell into shadow and disappeared. Many Dalish forgot the gods inspired terror and awe in equal measure, served as both the carrot and the stick. “Ghilan’nain’s death would be the red flag before Andruil’s bull, she hates broken toys.”

He smiled, drumming his knuckles on his knee.

“She’ll attempt to return the favor,” Sariel added.

“She may try,” Suledin said.

Sariel’s beak clicked, catching the ominous tone. “I do not doubt she will fail, my lord.”

He smiled. “The gods help those who help themselves, Sariel.”

“Ever shall I strive to be worthy of such recognition,” Sariel murmured, inclining her head. “May I always earn my seat at your table, Falon’din.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps if my gifts were greater, my philosophies might be heeded.”

Sariel’s gaze returned to the Dalish, watching them as they drifted into the trees and disappeared. “Eirwen always said people create their gods to be what they need, and not enough Dalish wish to be a force feared throughout the world. The cost is high, their pride is fragile, and they have been fractured many times.”

“Ultimately to the good,” Suledin said. “My siblings may flirt with them initially but, like Fen’Harel and Mythal, ignore them for better targets. Dirthamen might fight to claim them at whatever Conclave Mythal calls, however, his attention will draw on a misplaced sense of responsibility rather than real interest.”

“I will let the others know they must remain patient,” Sariel said. “The youngest disciples are eager to prove themselves on the field. Their pride wounded by Fen’Harel’s agents and the prattle over banalvhen.”

“The time for battle will come. Remind them patience is the practice of immortality,” his golden-brown eyes slanted under his lashes, “vengeance belongs to the court of Mythal.”

“The confident need not have their pride prickled by the disdain of others,” A’tethlas crowed from above. “You know that well as anyone, Sariel!”

Sariel ruffled her feathers, casting a long glance up at the trees. “You need not complain when your ego is pierced then, A’tethlas!”

Caws shook the branches overhead, laughter rising on the breeze. A black cloud of feathered bodies rose from the trees across the clearing. They swept into the sky in a black cyclone, their cries echoing through the forest. Both murder and misfortune ready to mob their enemies. His Feathered Court stood ready. They waited long for this opportunity to change the world, they would not let it slip them by. A smile curled on Suledin’s lips, and in the moment he was Falon’din of old; surrounded by shadow and silver, bathed in blood and ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tel'lath_ \- My Not Love (Aena may still be hung up on her ex-husbando.)
> 
> And lo' a wild Suledin appeared. This chapter let me dig into him a little more, his relationship with his ex-wife, his relationship with the Dalish, his relationship with Sariel. My favorite thing about Suledin/Falon'din is I never know which way he's going to jump. He's got a great relationship with his seconds, and he's very much The Boss where Dirthamen and Solas (especially Solas) are more tenuous in their grip. He's also the only one of the three who'd sit around and take that earful from Aena. I did like a little bit of structure in how Virlath views the gods (Aena) versus how Sariel views the gods (elvhen). We never got much opinion off Abelas, sadly, and Morrigan versus Solas isn't what I'd call completely helpful.
> 
> Falon'din's faction view him in a rather Viking way, I guess. You gotta do stuff to be worthy of his attention, be noteworthy. He's not going to answer you just because you pray. (What? You get his attention after you return from the quest you're not supposed to return from.) God of Battle, Fate and Chance. He's a god of the underworld, but I like that he's good at predicting marriages and that's part of where Sylaise gets her savvy.
> 
> As a reminder, The Melanada Vunin like to steal worthless members of the nobility and turn them into mounts. In this respect, they are very Fey.
> 
> If anyone wants to know, Falon'din is Single Target in his sexuality. He'll sleep with others, but he doesn't feel anything. Not even satisfaction really, he just has sex because he's expected to.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my "Evil Eirwen" series which I'm calling "Conquest in Winter". It's really a "Eirwen doesn't give a shit anymore and the gloves are coming off" but, okay. Since it involves an Inquisitor doing a lot of really questionable things and going off the rails, you know... we might as well call that evil.


End file.
